First off, he lived with a bunch of useless fucks who couldn’t act right to save their lives. Too loud, too reckless. They never cleaned up after themselves, leaving dirty clothes at every corner. The laundry machine itself was dusty, used primarily by Tim, Jack, and him. Tobias, on a good day.  

Second off, their food was already scarce, and after a long bender, it had been depleted by at least sixty percent.

They had ruined the kitchen. Throwing dry ingredients everywhere and devouring everything in the pantry. The only thing left in the fridge was beer. On top of that, the assignment he’d been tasked with was over two weeks long. He couldn’t even pack a fucking granola bar- because they didn’t have any.

Budgeting was rough. Most of their food was either stolen or purchased with pickpocketed cash. It worked well enough; however, the tactic was always based on luck. A fifty-fifty chance of landing on someone who carried real money. Sometimes they’d have a decent amount to spend, able to cover actual meals. Other times, it was barely sufficient for snacks.

Cards worked in theory, but it wasn’t worth the risk. Cards could be tracked and cancelled on the same day. It was easier to rely on paper, loose twenties wadded together. So imagine his surprise when their monthly food supply was vanquished in a weekend.

Hoodie wanted to kill somebody.

He had taken that frustration out on the sad, deadbeat who’d been getting too nosy. Yet he was left unsatisfied, carrying his irritation all the way to the bar. He’d snagged the guy's wallet. Spending it on a room-temperature whiskey and a pack of smokes. However, the flashing lights were starting to give him a headache, which led him here.

Now, standing in the cramped outhouse, he took a drag. Watching the pollution waft slowly, before a flash of colour caught his eye. A magazine was hanging in a basket close to the sink. With a vivid front cover, the tagline read- “Talk about rowdy roommies, am I right?”

The art illustrated a brightly toned character winking at the audience. Dressed in frills, you even had a little wand. There was also smaller text below. “A Guide for Gun Slingers & Magical Girls with too many problems!” The irony was not lost on him, and he huffed an almost laugh. He had no idea how the two correlated, but modern things will be modern, he supposed.

After debating for a moment, he reached for the pamphlet. It’s not like anyone was around, and he was bored. What was the harm in browsing? The blonde had time to kill anyway. He just wanted to see what gunslingers had to do with “Magical Girls” or whatever. It was fine, nothing out of the ordinary.

He flipped the thing open, immediately flash-banged with more colourful text. This time, you were 3D and sprawled on the floor. Okay, so this was a photoshoot..? Maybe?

The speech bubble above stated, “Man, these folks wouldn’t know respect if it hit them in the face !!” It made him exhale through his nose. Yeah, they really wouldn’t. Then he turned to the next page, then the next, and the next—

Brian had finished the entire magazine.

He hadn’t even noticed that he was close to the end until it was over. You discussed a wide range of issues, from fashion dilemmas to relationship struggles. Even including cleaning tips, budgeting for beginners and a weapon variety section. It was a shockingly well-rounded bathroom read.

Alright, he’d give the corporations their flowers. You seemed like a good enough influence, and your design wasn’t bad on the eyes either. Honestly, you were... funny. It’s not like some random comic could truly solve his problems, yet some of your advice stuck. You were relatable, in a weird, disembodied way. And for whatever reason, he still hadn’t set the pamphlet down.

It was entertaining, and technically, he wasn’t fully finished. He had skimmed, a speedy once-over deal. He hadn’t actually read the tiny blurbs on the sides. The paragraphs with the solutions- it was only right if he took it for the road.

That, right there, was the beginning of the end.

Although he did find it decently pleasant, the trouble came with his desire for a follow-up. He liked A Guide for Gun Slingers & Magical Girls with too many problems ! ™ He could admit that. It was convenient to have on hand. A good way to keep his mind busy. It was hard to find respectable media these days, and that tied into his current situation.

The one he had was labelled as “Volume. 14” Which meant there were at least another thirteen to read. The issue? They didn’t seem to have the series anywhere. Not at the local bookstore in town, not in another bathroom, not even at the corner store. The bastards had bad song covers on DVD, but not your pamphlet. Like what kind of establishment were they running?

He searched high and low, coming back empty-handed each time. A man could only reread the same feature so often, you know? He was getting desperate, not that he’d ever say that out loud. Yet, Hoodie knew one thing, one fact that stayed true throughout the months.

He needed the complete collection.

ᯓ★

The discovery was like finding nirvana.

Rifle clattering onto the table, his hands moved with practice. Oiling the metal, checking for nicks and rust. Brian was settled on the worn-down couch when Jeff dropped next to him. Flinging his knife into the air, he caught it before fetching the TV remote. The station flickered to life, and the second he glanced up, he saw it.

Saw you.

Waving at the camera, you greeted the viewers cheerfully. “Yellow! Welcome back, my angels!” Shining brighter than the early sun. Your voice was bubbly- chipper when you went on to catch the audience up. This episode was about your fight against an ancient evil. A grand finale, titled “Bad Habits Die Hard.” It was narrated by you- a part of your abilities.

You could break the fourth wall, interacting with the screen as you pleased. Your crew of allies gathered on a vast battlefield, bracing themselves for the storm. You fought valiantly, wand in hand, while you parried strikes. A spark here, a flash there, the beast screeched in anger. His lip curled up in a snarl, and he whirled his arm back. Skin splitting to reveal rows of jagged teeth.

Though just before he could lunge, you tugged another character in front of you. A bunny fighter of some sort, donning floppy ears and a fluffy tail to match. They pressed their palms to their lips, then flung their hands out for a special attack. Cupid’s Shot, activated by blowing a kiss at the opponent. It hit the guy square in the chest, and he flew back.

Skidding against the dirt, plumes confettied into the wind. There were even cartoon birds and hearts swirling around his head. You turned to the camera after, snickering about his weakness for your friend. Apparently, they were actually married, and this was simply a lovers’ quarrel.

The episode ended with you celebrating the win. The moral of the story was that communication was important, a priority in relationships.

“Remember, you can’t keep something shining if you don’t polish it. Think gun metal! It’ll rust if you don’t oil it, grow rickety if you don’t take care of it. Love is the same way! And I’ll see you next week- signing out, yours truly.”

The outro played once you’d winked, and a commercial came on. Brian, despite his lingering denial, was hooked. I mean, come on. Rifle puns, action, it had humour, too. You were witty, quick-tongued. Ignoring the fact that he thought you were attractive like a teen with a crush. He found himself disappointed that it was over—

“Did you seriously watch that shit?”

Jeff had fallen asleep the second he turned on the TV. Awaking to your theme song blasting, the killer was confused to say the least.

However, Hoodie was quick to straighten up. “What do you think?” Shooting him a glare sharp enough to cut. It made the other sneer, shoving off the sofa while barking over his shoulder. “Jesus fucking christ- who pissed in your cereal?”

He walked with a stumble, clearly inebriated from whatever he’d drunk earlier that night. Jeff only crashed onto the couch because he didn’t have enough coordination to make it up the stairs. Leaving a streak of blood on the armrest and everything. He’d gone hunting, then got wasted. Fucking typical. Brian drew a heavy breath.

Finishing his original task, it was past one AM by the time he reached his bed. The old mattress creaked as he slumped down. Same shit, different day. Stripping to nothing but his boxers, he sprawled on his back. Scruffy sheets under him. Jeff’s words echoed through his mind. What the hell did he even mean by that?

There was nothing wrong with your show. It was a nice watch, and it had a good message. He was simply too dense. Wouldn’t understand a healthy mindset if it shot him between the eyes. You were balanced, both caring and cutthroat. Sometimes you were selfless, other times you did things because you wanted to. It made you feel real and respectable.

Jeff just didn’t get it.

ᯓ★

“The hell are you doing?”

Elbow deep in grime and guts, Tim was exhausted. Ready to finish the job and head home, he’d turned around to find Brian frozen.

They had been sent out to take care of some stray hikers. Conspiracy theorists who got too nosy. The couple were long dead- the only thing left to do was get rid of the bodies. Yet the other man seemed preoccupied, staring entranced at a corner of the cabin.

The victims' setup wasn’t out of the ordinary by any means; there weren’t even weapons or supplies to take. Their rented-out shelter was a run-of-the-mill vacation house, decorated with the bare minimum. So what in the world was Hoodie distracted by?

His previous question went unanswered for another beat, then Brian blinked back to life. Stiffly grunting, “Nothing- we can bury ‘em out back.” An expected response that Tim thought nothing of. He knew well enough that the work they did wasn’t light, and it’d get to you no matter how cold you’d grown to it.

Dragging the corpse closest to him through the back door, he returned just to see Hoodie missing from his prior station. The body (that should’ve been hauled up by now) was untouched, and his partner had gravitated to a shelf near the fireplace. He looked like he hadn’t even noticed that Tim had entered the room, shifting in place as if he were making a life-or-death decision.

Upon stepping closer, he observed in confusion as Brian reached for a plush toy sitting on the ledge. A brightly coloured doll, with sparkly cheeks and a fantastical outfit. He was holding the thing with so much care that it threw Masky off. The sniper had never been a fan of the sentimentals, and even if the toy was attached to an old memory- why now?

They were drenched in blood and tired enough to collapse. What value could it possibly possess to make Hoodie drop everything and retrieve it from its spot? Tim cleared his throat loudly.

“You got plans for that thing—”

“Jesus fuck.”

The blonde jolted, spinning to face him sharply, doll still in hand. “I thought you were gettin’ the body.” His tone made Tim raise a brow, and he muttered, puzzled. “... I did. Thought you were gettin’ the other one.” The two stayed at a standstill for a moment before he nodded in response. Shoving the mini-plush into his jacket pocket and moved to hoist the carcass over his shoulder.

However, Tim was now even more perplexed. While Brian wasn’t terribly open, they trusted each other. Had each other's backs at the worst of times. Why the hell was he being so weird about it? Assuming it was probably related to his childhood, the man followed him as he marched outside. Lighting a cigarette on the way.

They dumped the limbs into a pre-dug grave, burying their tracks with the usual protocol. Everything had gone to plan, and Brian was only slightly shaken up about being caught. It was fine, good even-

Until Tim unlatched the glove box.

In hindsight, the chamber wasn’t the best place to store his collection. But he was always on the road, always active and sent out day after day. It just made the most sense to keep the magazines there, and it hadn’t affected him for the worse either. Till now, that is. Because the second the compartment opened, all hell broke loose.

Saved photocards, pamphlets, and merch-themed trinkets tumbled out onto the brunette's lap. All with a person who bore a striking resemblance to the toy he’d grabbed earlier, printed front and center. The silence between them fizzled with tension, then Brian swallowed hard.

“... I can explain-”

“Who the fuck are you?”

Tim squinted at him, cig hanging limply from his lips. Never in all his years could he have predicted this. A fanboy. Hoodie was a fanboy. The evidence was clear as day, and the exasperation on his friend's face only damned him further. “I started reading, alright? Ain’t nothing wrong with havin’ a hobby.” Revving the engine, his defence was met with a scoff.

“What is all this? You been collecting this shit?” Masky muttered under his breath, picking up a Polaroid to inspect it. You were posing with a glowing wand, winking at the camera under pastel lights. In another, you were sitting on a beach chair. Styled in an up-do with flowers in your hair, a vibrant bikini, pulling the whole look together.

If you told Tim a year ago that Brian was into fairy princesses or whatever this was, he would’ve shot you.

The pressure continued for at least another ten minutes. Pictures on pictures, your little snapshots came bedazzled, too. Stickers on the frame, key charms of your logo spread over his thighs. At this point, Timothy Wright was questioning everything he knew about his lifelong companion.

“So, you get into it recently or?” Tim reclined after half-hazardously pushing the belongings back into the glove box. Crossing his arms when Hoodie grumbled. “Got into it a while back-” He opened his mouth, only to be cut off by the others' outburst. “It’s a good series. It ain’t like that mind-rotting shit you see everywhere. It’s honest fuckin’ work, Tim.”

The passion in his voice was not lost, and Masky side-eyed him like he’d grown three heads. He supposed that people needed outlets- it was just that those outlets normally involved alcohol, violence or substances.

On one hand, he was somewhat glad Brian wasn’t losing his mind, downing unmarked pills. On the other hand, he was a grown-ass man with pictures of some random girl in his truck. It was an odd situation to navigate, and he wasn’t sure how to respond.

The man wasn’t doing any wrong, and this was objectively a harmless interest. It was just jarring because of how they lived, who they were. Imagining Hoodie going through the Polaroids alone, excitedly reading each volume, felt dystopian. Unrealistic, almost, yet here he was. Utterly balls-deep in your story and willing to defend your name.

Tim was stuck at a crossroads. He technically could just let it go. Let Brian continue his love for your media and keep to himself- but this was a golden opportunity. Hoodie was damn near the baddest of the bunch, and his favourite pastime was reading about magical girls.

It was hilarious.

Turning to his left, he exhaled slowly. “You like the frills, huh?” Teasing laid on thick. His jab had Brian clicking his tongue in annoyance. “Shut the hell up. S’not like that, she’s- she’s good at what she does. It’s a well-produced show-”

“You watchin’ shows now?”

“We spend all day blowing motherfuckers heads off- but fuck me if I ain’t wanna’ see that shit on TV, right?”

His sentence ended with a sharp huff, and Masky whistled. “Shit, didn’t mean it like that. You jus’ ain’t seem like the type.” Smoke curled into the air, wafting past Hoodie's vision as he readjusted his grip on the wheel. It made him frown.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Offended before Tim could explain himself, he had to laugh. “Easy- I’m sayin’ yer’ not exactly the sparkly type.” He was right, and Hoodie, despite himself, felt his lips tugging up. “I’m versatile.” Brothers in arms, even if they got on each other’s nerves every minute of the day.

The rest of the drive was brisk, the boys bickering back and forth for the entirety of it. And when the manor was within sight, the car slowed to a halt.

Brian rushed up the stairs as discreetly as he could. He was sore from head to toe, exhausted beyond belief- yet, he had done it. The plush he’d snagged of you wasn’t just regular merch; it was a special model. A rare, limited edition replica. He saw the launch a bit ago, but it wasn’t anywhere near their town. And it’s not like he could ship it here.

Even if he could, with what money? They were barely getting by as is; he couldn’t drop a few hundred for a collectible. It wasn’t in his cards- or so he thought. The moment he laid his eyes upon your figure on that shelf was a moment unlike any other. It was perfect. They were already long dead, and the plush was his for the taking.

Stepping into his room, he locked the door behind him. It was time to get serious. That had been the last assignment for this week; he hadn’t been scheduled for any more jobs. So tonight was for me-time. He took a quick shower to clean off the blood and dirt, then immediately plugged in his laptop.

There were a plethora of streaming websites that offered reruns and new drops of your show. From season one to season five, they had it all, and he wasn’t caught up due to being on the field basically all month.

He swiftly tapped the twelfth episode, shuffling against the pillows while the screen flashed the words. “Sand Castle Dilemma.” Beach themed, huh? Most of your plots were battle-involving, so this must be a filler of some kind. Either way, he needed a much-deserved break from gore, and this would be a nice change of pace.

The viewing went as expected, with you and your friends wrestling over who had the best sand sculpture. And maybe it was stupid, but your lighthearted jokes always brightened his mood. Brian was in the middle of appreciating your artistic talents on the shore, the episode coming to an end, when you said something that made him pause.

“Breaking news, loveys! I’m going on a super-duper top-secret mission. If you’re in the Rosswood area, I could really use the help. But between us, I think I got it—”

After your dialogue faded, instead of the usual credits, an info page popped up. You were going on tour, doing meet-and-greets in different towns. Gathering “allies” in your fight against injustice, they were expected to dress up in their Sunday best. Basically, put on a hero suit, for lack of better wording. It had him sitting straight, hurriedly searching for details. Of course, he couldn’t go, but it wouldn’t hurt to look.

Yet the more he read, the more he wanted to attend. It didn’t even cost more than a pack of smokes, and he could last a week without lighting a cigarette after every drive. It’s not like anyone would notice, he could just slip into the crowd. Stay long enough to see you, maybe get you to sign something, then he’d disappear.

Yes, there was a very high possibility that he’d scare you. Yes, he was willing to bet on those odds.

It wouldn’t be your fault, of course not. He knew what he looked like, how he came off- it was natural for most civilians to avoid eye contact standing around him, let alone interacting with him. He made people uneasy. Which worked great when he was trying to literally waterboard information out of someone, but not quite suited for a cheerful meet-and-greet. So with a heavy heart, he accepted a blaring, very troubling fact.

Brian needed a disguise.

ᯓ★

“You want… a fox head?

“Mm.”

Laughing Jack had been around for a very, very long time, and never had he been this stumped. When there was a knock on the attack door, he’d expected Jeff, high and in need of snacks. Ben, annoying him to bum off sweets- shit, maybe even Toby. What he had not planned for was Hoodie. The ever-brooding, always scowling Brian Thomas himself. Asking for a mascot fox head of all things.

He quirked his head to the side, curious. “What for?” The evident excitement in his swirled pupils made Hoodie roll his eyes. “An assignment. I need to blend in with some fuckin’ parade bullshit.” A lie, but LJ didn’t need to know that.

The jester clapped his hands together loudly, cackling while he strided into his seemingly endless circus-themed space. “Oh, goodie! It’s about time that Mr. Boss sent you to do something fun.” He rifled next to a comically sized popcorn stand, throwing out things that definitely did not fit behind the machine. Fucking clowns.

Brian sighed, and LJ tugged up a cartoonish mask. Bouncing back over, he held the costume out to Hoodie theatrically. “This might be my finest work yet!” The item was lined with soft fur, orange with black-tipped ears and a button-nosed snout. He grunted a “Thank you.” Then headed on his way, promising to owe the monochrome demon a favour later.

If he came home with at least one thing of official merch, this would all be worth it.

Hopefully.

The next step of his disguise fiasco was the outfit. All his current clothing was either blood-stained, grimy, or worn down beyond the acceptable limit for nice events. He needed something new. Immediately. Your tour was arriving in town that very week, which meant he had to have the items ready in less than two days. It was time to get serious.

Though with his budgeting struggle, he couldn’t just walk into any respectable store. It left him with one resort left. Robbery post murder. Not great, yet it was necessary.

The second greatest embarrassment he’d ever experienced was during the next mission.

A three-man job. Him, Toby, and Tim had packed into the truck like sardines, executing the target before disposing of the bodies. The usual stuff. His plan was to linger behind a bit, give himself enough time to snoop the victim's wardrobe and snag some decent pants- maybe a sleek button-up. Except that Rogers apparently had the same idea in mind, and Hoodie was caught red-handed.

Standing in the doorway, Toby gaped at Brian, jaw slack. He’d snuck up the stairs, going to grab some new laces since his Converse were starting to break down, only to find the sniper holding up a suit jacket to his chest. The two stared at each other for a hefty thirty seconds, and the boy pursed his lips.

“You going s-somewhere soon or?”

Brian marched towards him instantly, muttering harshly under his breath. “If you run yer’ goddamn mouth, I’ll make sure you ain’t wake up tomorrow, Tobias. Do you understand?” Toby threw his hands up, shaking his head frantically. “Okay! S-shit- I wasn’t gonna’ snitch, man, jeez.” The older man narrowed his eyes, shoving the garments into his bag and pushing past Toby after.

The car ride was oddly tense on Toby’s behalf, Hoodie glaring at him through the rearview mirror every few seconds. He shrank further into his seat and gave Masky a lacklustre thumbs up when he raised a brow from the passenger side.

The blonde felt bad to a certain extent. He knew Toby wasn’t ill-intentioned; it’s just that he couldn’t risk anyone tampering- whether by accident or not.

He’ll stop by the gas station and pick up the boys' favourite candy another day.

ᯓ★

This was it.

He felt like a grade-A dumbass loitering in public with the mascot head on, but it was for a greater purpose. And in all honesty, if it weren’t for the ludicrousity of the mask, his outfit was actually pretty passable, in his opinion.

A rustic tanned suit, beige dress shirt and slacks to match, the look finished with a muted yellow bowtie. He stood amongst the bustling fans as he waited for you to make your appearance. While he was utterly humiliated by his own choices, he was also filled with anticipation. You were going to be here. He was going to be able to hear your voice in person.

God, this was pathetic.

He scrunched his eyes shut, taking a moment to suppress the self-awareness. However, before he could spiral too far, a honeyed pitch echoed across the stage. It was a smaller setup, stationed close to the woodline for event privacy. The venue occupied was usually used for community plays, yet it was grand all the same.

You bounded out from beyond the draping curtains, waving animatedly to the audience. The blinding lights made you glow, multicoloured as they swooped the crowd before landing on you. Skirt swishing, he thinks he can see glitter explode out from your shoes when you step.

“Hello, my darlings! I’m so glad you could make it out tonight! There’s an urgent mission that needs your help. Who’s up for the challenge? Because we need the bravest and strongest at the frontlines.”

The show was made to be interactive. It didn’t act as the normal fan sign-up; instead, it was a live reenactment of your show's plotlines. You had weapon replicas for auction, along with games to play on stage to win extra items.

People were called up randomly, and the age demographic was shockingly vast. It turned out he wasn’t the only one who thought you were the greatest thing since sliced bread.

Originally, he wanted to try attaining an autograph- but pushing his way past people to get near the stadium front was something he would judge himself too much for. He settled on simply watching from a distance, enjoying himself for the evening and pretending he didn’t have enough blood on his hands to drown a nation.

However, in the middle of a spin-to-win type game, a “villain” jumped up from stage left. They swung their sword towards you, challenging you to a duel with a henchman at their side. You planted your heels firmly, hands on your hips, declaring. “Well then- I suppose I should call in my super secret backup!” You winked at the masses. “Where’s my sniper!” Then the beams of light circled the audience- sharply stopping directly on Brian.

The flashes made him squint even through the mask, and he faltered. Okay. Sure. If he could snipe men in moving cars, doing it for the sake of showbiz couldn’t be that hard, right?

The people around him cheered, lively, while he was ushered up. Now stationed on the platform, he drew a slow breath. It was too late to back out now, and if he was going to do this, he was going to go all the way. Brain kicking into gear as he transitioned into his improvised persona. He dropped into a deep bow, one hand on his chest, the other behind his back, when he rose. Thank god for his acting classes back in college.

“At your service, pretty miss.”

His mannerisms appeared to surprise you for a second, before your eyes sparkled. Grinning, you snatched a bedazzled rifle from your box of gadgets, tossing it at him before focusing on the threat. Your star-accented wand was pointed at the pair, with him joining you by your side- and the rest was history.

Hoodie stayed on stage for the majority of the night after that, since you seemed to take a liking to him. Naming him your “Trusted right-hand man.” The two of you battled various attackers, helping the younger fans aim with fake crystal laser canons and hyping up the crowd. As stupid as it might sound, it was the first time in years he’d laughed that much.

The kids were sweet, bushy-tailed, with enough energy to put Rogers to shame. It reminded him that not everyone out there was born cruel, that not every person who walked the earth had their fate damned to sin. And his banter with you was flawless.

You riffed off one another, bits on bits, your humour somehow lined up perfectly. He would throw out an idea, and you’d incorporate it into the next act like you’d known each other for years. You’d even said the same thing at the same time throughout the night, to the point where half the audience believed he was an unannounced hire.

Still, even the most sensational experiences had to come to an end. Slowly, the set began wrapping up, and you bid him goodbye, saying that if you ever needed help saving the world again, you’d know just who to call.

Walking back, his watch read ‘11:31 PM.’ A night well spent. He sighed, cracking his neck. He doubted he’d ever do anything like that again, but it was a good memory to keep. The night when he wasn’t a cold-blooded killer, but a wondrous hero who fought in the name of justice. It made him huff a chuckle quietly, going to remove the mask— he heard you.

“What the fuck-”

The panic in your voice had him straightening his spine, alert. He darted around the corner, boots thudding against concrete. The dim street lights showed him your silhouette a couple of paces down the block, terrified as you stumbled away from the source of your horror. A rake.

They roamed this part of the trees, normally scared off by noise, yet the hordes had faded. It was rare they came wandering this far, but he guessed the accumulated scent of humans lured the beast out for dinner.

Where was your security? Not that it mattered. You were alone and in danger, and he was not going to let you get hurt. The gun was in his hand before he registered that he was running.

He charged forward, mascot head still covering his features when he slid in front of you, pistol aimed at the creature.

You gasped. “It’s you.” Clutching your hands to your chest, you jolted back harshly, watching the disfigured husk lunge at him. Brian, on the other hand, barely flinching, pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced the rake's leg, and it screeched inhumanly.

Warping its limbs violently, it whirled a claw at your saviour, and he ducked smoothly, practiced. He moved skillfully, sweeping his leg to the left, then pushing in. He swerved to avoid another slash, jumping over a low hit before jamming the steel barrel under the thing’s jaw. Its brain’s splattered with the loud reverb from his pistol, and it slumped to the pavement.

Chest heaving, he rolled his shoulders back, not facing you while he tucked the gun into his waistband. “You alright?” You stuttered, disoriented. “Yeah- yeah. I’m fine. I think.” You didn’t know what just happened, a headache forming the longer you stared at the crumpled body on the ground. You glanced up, and he spun on his heel.

“Why are you out here?”

The teasing lilt you’d gotten accustomed to had vanished, replaced by a stern edge. You swallowed. “I was- I don’t know, it gets stuffy in the trailer. I wanted to walk for a bit.” The explanation made him grunt, clicking his tongue. “Bring yer’ people with you next time. This town’s not what it seems. It ain’t safe past dark.” You nodded, your mysterious co-star turning to leave, hauling the monster up by the arm to tow with him.

Your hand shot out, grabbing his sleeve, and he froze. “Thank you for saving me. Can I, um. Do anything for you?” It most likely wasn’t terribly smart to cling to him. It’s just that you were still shaken up, and you weren’t ecstatic about walking to the car by yourself. Dangerous or not, he clearly knew what he was doing. You were safer in his presence, you’re sure.

Sighing, his head tilted a fraction over his shoulder. “You should get back, missus. I’m not someone you wanna’ be around.” You pouted, desperate. You didn’t care anymore; you would beg if you had to. “Canyoupleasewalkmeback?” The words were rushed out- he hesitated, then the man turned to you. “If I walk you back, you can’t tell nobody I was with you. You hear me?” You nodded hurriedly once more, and he shucked the corpse onto the floor, making a mental note to take care of it after.

He stayed by your side until you reached the border of the stadium entrance, the distant chatter of your crew reaching his ears.

You mumbled, fidgeting with your thumbs. “Will I ever see you again?” He exhaled through his nose. “You should pray that you don’t.” With that, he swivelled around, his figure fading out of view and into the midnight.

Despite everything, his absence left you strangely empty.

ᯓ★

Almost a full week had passed, and Brian was back on schedule.

He still collected your magazines, keeping up with your episodes. He hated how badly he wanted to linger. Alas, it wasn’t safe. You’d already seen too much, and he couldn’t risk putting you in any more danger by staying longer than he had. Though the way you looked at him would play on loop every time he closed his eyes.

Your smile, how you held onto him during the walk. It felt nice to be able to comfort you. Even if you had no idea what you were getting into or who he really was, he liked to think that you meant it when you laughed with him.

Snagging a cigarette out from the box, it sat loosely between his lips as his lighter clicked to life. The flame sizzled against tobacco, and he shuffled through the newspaper lazily.

The truck was parked out in front of a corner store near the highway. They had just finished a stakeout, so he had room to breathe. Flipping to the next page, the header was printed with bolded text. He grinned.

“StarGirl Icon saved by The Fantastic Mr. Fox.”

— ^ ^ —

There’s something surreal about dating Brendon Park.

It’s been weeks since he first kissed you. Weeks since the night he called you his and then slept wrapped around you in his bed. It might as well have all happened yesterday though, because every time he touches you still feels like a novelty. How one man can be so emotionally constipated and yet so physically affectionate, you’ll never know.

Like now, when he’s kissing you senseless against the side of your car, right after telling you that you park like shit. Impossible man. You don’t mind it though — he’s there in all the ways that matter. Judging your protein intake and shoving water in your hand every five seconds. Listening to your two thousandth edit of your dissertation abstract without protest. Buying you your oat milk matcha lattes even if he says they’re stupid.

You like to think you take care of him, too. You get him sweet treats he insists he doesn’t like but then refuses to share with you. When he has a particularly busy day, you sneak snacks into his bag, because you know he won’t bother wasting time going to get food. And after long surgeries, when he says he’s fine and scowls at you to leave him alone, you’ll help him rub the knots out of his shoulders while he pretends he hates it.

A sharp nip at your mouth brings you back to the present.

“You’re distracted,” he says, half-amused, half-annoyed.

“Seems like a skill problem on your part,” you snipe back, flustered.

A slow, dangerous smile curls his lips, and you immediately regret your words. Of course he’s not insulted. Of course he sees them as some kind of a challenge. You’re starting to understand why people call him Park the Shark, because the look he gives you is downright predatory.

“No,” you say immediately. “Absolutely not.”

You try wiggling out of his arms and fail spectacularly.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did the-, the thing.”

“Smiling?”

“Yes. Smiling. That. It’s not your natural state. It signals danger.”

The smile widens.

“You’re lucky we have that early meeting. Otherwise you’d be paying for your skill comment.”

And you must be spending too much time around him, because instead of blushing and shrinking, you meet his eyes and say-

“Promise?”

The two of you are almost late to said meeting. 

Which, for you, isn’t that unheard of, but you see Brendon get some weird looks from a couple of the residents and Dr. Lee. He responds to all of them with a curled lip and icy glare, and everyone looks away quickly. You hide a smile from where you stand across the room.

Besides Wilts — who Brendon had assured you will say nothing if she values her life — no one at PTMC knows the two of you are together. Some people in the ED suspect probably, and Patty and her smug smile definitely know, but no one has any proof. The two of you had decided only days after that first kiss to keep things quiet. At least for now.

You’d had a meeting with Dr. Nayar — the director of the CMU/PTMC research collaborative — that Monday, and he’d let slip that PTMC would soon be looking for a new head for its Operational Research and Development Department. The not-so-accidental lapse had been a not-so-subtle suggestion that you apply for the position when it posted, and you’d left that meeting and immediately called one of your cohort members to freak out. Then when Brendon had finished surgery two hours later, you’d done the exact same thing with him.

The position is exactly what you’ve been looking for — a role focusing on research and technical processes, but directly attached to a clinical institution. Even better, it’s at PTMC, where you’ve built the majority of your adaptive patient flow model. You already know the hospital, know the key players and know how things operate. Even better better, Brendon is here. It’s way too soon to be making any decisions based on your month-and-some-change old relationship, but him being here is certainly a bonus. 

The two of you had discussed it that night over Thai takeout. Nothing was guaranteed — Nayar’s words had been a tip, not a promise — but you also know that he wouldn’t have told you about the job unless he’d heard some hint that the hospital wanted your research. Brendon had listened to your explanation and agreed. But in between harassing you to eat your chicken, not just the noodles, and being insufferably smug on your behalf, he’d quietly reminded you that your relationship could have ramifications if you decided to apply.

“It’s going to be a competitive process. You can’t give them any reason to think you didn’t earn the position on your own.”

Which would probably make dating the hospital’s star orthopedic surgeon a no-no. He has nothing to do with your dissertation or your research, but you know that won’t make a difference if someone is looking for a reason not to hire you. Or if someone is looking for a way to make themselves look like a better candidate. 

The reminder is pragmatic, necessary. But it still knocks you off-kilter. You sit across from him, picking at your noodles and feeling upset about possibly having to hide your relationship because of a possible job that you might possibly apply to. It’s absolutely ridiculous and yet still enough to ruin your appetite. 

The longer you stew on your thoughts, the worse it gets. He’s older, successful, makes stupid money and looks like an action movie hero. You’re a grad student with grad student-money and anxiety. You’re not shallow enough to think those differences make you worth any less, but that doesn’t mean jack to your overactive doom-spiral. Of course no one can know you’re together. Of course-

“What,” Brendon asks when you’re silent for too long.

You make a noncommittal noise and avoid eye contact. He mutters something that’s probably not very nice, and then stands from his chair and rounds the island. You’re expecting him to be upset with your inanity, annoyed at the very least, and you’re shocked when he spins you around, plants both hands on the counter behind you, and bends down to kiss you.

It’s not the soft kisses he gave you in the ED and right after. It’s also not the absolutely filthy kiss he gave you this morning before the two of you headed into the hospital. This is somewhere in between, slow and purposeful but not intended to lead to something else. You melt into it like you always do, arms sliding around his neck and fingers finding the shorter hairs at his nape.

“Ridiculous girl,” he huffs against your lips.

“I-“

“You know that day you brought me coffee? You were wearing that blue dress with the bow.”

Another kiss, this one deeper.

“I wanted to bend you over the charge desk and fuck you right there. That’s still on the table if you want it, but I figure we should at least wait until you have your job offer first.”

You smile now at the memory. Only Brendon could turn something so indelicate-sounding into a reassurance. It had worked though, and you’re content to keep things between the two of you for now. Even if it means you have to stand across the room from him and pretend you don’t know why his usually perfectly-styled hair is slightly less perfect this morning.

You’re observing the surgical department this week and the next. It’s one of the last departments you have to cover before you finish the field part of your research, and then all you’ll have left is finalizing your model and completing your manuscript. You were here yesterday, too, and you’ll admit that you like seeing Brendon in his element. He’s at his snappiest and snarliest here, and it does something unprofessional to your libido.

“Alright people, settle down.”

Dr. Konomori, the Chief of Surgery, raises her voice to be heard over the early-morning chatter, and the noise eventually subsides. She’s a fierce Japanese woman in her late fifties who barely tops five foot, but she commands attention in a way men twice her size don’t.

“We all have cases to get to, so I’ll make this short. I’m sure you all know this is Dr. Ramirez’s last week with us before heading to Atlanta-“

A couple of good-natured boos sound from the crowd, but Konomori doesn’t blink.

“-so I’m here to introduce our new head of vascular, Dr. Everett Edwards. He comes to us from the Cleveland Clinic, but he’s a Pittsburgh native, so welcome back Dr. Edwards.”

A round of applause, surprisingly boisterous given the early hour, breaks out. You crane your head around the pair of residents in front of you. You know most of the speciality heads by now, but there are dozens of other attendings and residents that you’ve never met, so you’re not quite sure who you’re looking for. Then a man you’ve never seen steps up next to Dr. Konomori, and you actually let out a disbelieving snort.

Everett Edwards is quite possibly the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen. Raven hair, amber eyes bright enough you can see them from halfway across the room, and a blindingly white smile. He’s disturbingly attractive. Like uncanny valley levels of attractive. He’s slightly shorter and leaner than Brendon’s towering frame, but you can still tell the guy is built, even under his navy surgical scrubs and his white coat.

You’re legitimately calculating the odds that he’s some sort of robot or genetically engineered plant, when those amber eyes meet yours. It’s like looking at the freaking sun. You slow blink, trying to process the mutant demigod looking at you, and his smile widens. It goes from polite-charming to zeroed-in-charming, and you feel it like a slap across the face. Konomori then tells everyone to get back to work, and you’re relieved for all of three seconds before Edwards actually starts walking towards you. 

You register several things when he stops in front of you. One, you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. Two, he smells like expensive cologne, something sharp that makes your nose twitch. And three, if looks could kill, he would be long-dead. Because Brendon catches sight of the two of you from where he’s standing by the charge desk, and the blue in his eyes goes positively arctic. 

“Hi, you must be Y/n Y/l/n.”

Even his stupid voice is attractive.

“Um, yes, hi?”

Your gaze is pulled from Brendon’s attempt at first-degree murder back to the man in front of you.

“Everett Edwards, nice to meet you. Dr. Konomori told me a bit about your research here and that you’ll be with us for the next few days.”

He holds out his hand, and you shake it like it’s a snake waiting to bite you.

“I will-. Yes, Dr. Edwards, I-”

“Everett, please. I’ll be doing a lot of observation this week before Dr. Ramirez leaves, so we’ll likely run into each other quite a bit. Dr. Edwards just sounds pretentious.”

He gives you another megawatt grin, this one conspiratorial and intimate. Twenty-year-old you would probably have combusted on the spot. Current you isn’t immune to the charm, but you’re not nearly as impressed by it as you would have been once upon a time. He might be the sun given form —  all bright and golden and warm — but you prefer the cool. Oceans and ice and blue so sharp it steals your breath.

“Right, well. Everett. I have to get over to OR five, but it was nice to meet you.”

You give him your most professional smile and basically bolt away from him. It’s done with absolutely no grace and probably isn’t the most polite thing you could do, but you don’t care. You can feel his amusement following you down the hall. You head towards the surgical suites and are about to pull out your phone to text Brendon when an arm hooks around your waist and drags you sideways.

“What-“

You catch a flash of burning cerulean before Brendon’s mouth is on yours. Your back meets something solid, and then he’s pressed against you from shoulder to hip. His hands fist your hair to angle your head how he wants, and he kisses you harshly, all tongue and teeth. Lightning shoots through you.

“Bren,” you gasp when he lets you breathe. “What are you doing?”

A quick glance around tells you he’d pulled you into an on-call room, and anyone could walk in at any time.

“Asshole’s been here five seconds,” he mutters in response, scowling.

“What?”

“The Ken doll eye-fucking you. Doesn’t even have a permanent parking pass yet, and he’s already trying to take things that aren’t his.”

Understanding dawns like a lightbulb.

“Are you jealous?”

A slow, delighted smile spreads across your face, and he fairly growls at you.

“No, and don’t look at me like that.”

“Brendon. He shook my hand and said nice to meet you.”

“Stop looking so fucking smug.”

“Stop being jealous.”

“I’m not jealous you nutcase . I’m pissed off that he’s flirting with you in front of the whole fucking department, while I have to pretend I don’t know what you sound like coming on my cock.”

Now it’s his turn to smirk while your face flames.

“We’re at work,” you hiss.

“Which part of I would happily fuck you in the middle of reception was unclear to you?”

Insufferable man.

But he’s your insufferable man, and you smile despite yourself. Sighing, you stretch up on your toes to kiss him again. He puts up a token resistance for approximately two seconds, then relents and makes a low sound against your mouth. Your hum in contentment and wiggle as close to him as possible.

“It’s not about me,” you say when you pull back a while later. 

You place one hand on his chest and rub your fingers lightly against the fabric of his scrubs.

“He’s just a flirt. He’ll figure out pretty quickly I’m not interested and start wooing someone else.”

He scowls and presses a kiss to your jaw.

“He fucking better.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Turns out Everett Edwards is much more patient than you gave him credit for.

It’s now the following Friday, and he’s spent the last two weeks charming the pants off every person in the department. At least two nurses and one of the plastics attendings have already shot their shot with him, and everyone else seems close on their heels. Everyone except Brendon, who is one twitch away from physical violence, and you.

Edwards is charismatic, you’ll give him that. He’s smart, well-spoken, and has a way of talking to people that makes them feel like they’re the only person in the world. He’s quick with a smile or a joke, and he isn’t afraid to poke fun at himself either. That’s what makes him so likable, you think. He doesn’t pretend false modesty, but he also doesn’t take himself too seriously. 

He’s also admirably, irritatingly, persistent.

The Tuesday you met him, he’d followed you to the observation room of OR five. You’d been there to study technical procedures — anything that could improve efficiency and accuracy and reduce margin of error — and had only a basic grasp of what was actually happening medically. Edwards had been all too happy to camp out next to you and explain the spring-mediated cranioplasty.

Wednesday, he’d brought doughnuts for everyone and had saved one for the genius trying to make our lives more efficient.

On Friday, he’d found you observing another surgery and had complimented your work ethic with alarming sincerity.

Then this Monday, he’d caught you before rounds and had invited you to watch him perform a carotid endarterectomy. For the model he’d said with a wink.

By Wednesday, Brendon was ready to chew through drywall. 

“I’m going to stab him with an eleven blade,” he grumbles against your hair.

The two of you are lying in his bed, clothes scattered somewhere on the floor and sheets tangled around bare legs. He’s on his back with you half-draped across his chest. One of his arms is hooked around your waist, and his fingers are gentle as they card through the ends of your hair despite the irritation in his voice.

“Dramatic,” you tease.

You shift so you can see him, arms braced on his chest. The sight of him — naked, flushed, softer than anyone else knows he can be — steals your breath momentarily. You can’t help but bend down to kiss him.

“You know I’m not interested,” you say when you pull back.

He scowls like you just spit on his mother’s grave.

“Of course I know that. I just don’t know why you haven’t told him to fuck off yet.”

“I-“

His large hands grab your hips and yank you up until you’re sitting on his lap. You gasp when the movement drags your bare cunt over his cock. He’s already half-hard again, and he smirks when your hips twitch down involuntarily. You’re still sensitive from him being inside of you not long ago, and you have no idea how he can possibly be ready for another round so soon.

“Cut it out you heathen,” you hiss. “I was going to say that I can’t tell him off, because he hasn’t done anything yet.”

It’s true. Edwards hasn’t given you any gifts, hasn’t paid you any non-professional compliments, hasn’t made any physical advances. He hasn’t done anything that could be considered inappropriate. He’s just…attentive.

Brendon is thoroughly unimpressed by your logic, and he retaliates by rolling his hips up against yours. It punches an embarrassing noise out of you.

“Aren’t you all about planning and being prepared for things?” he asks as he drags his rapidly hardening cock directly against your clit. “Tell him to fuck off proactively.”

“I can’t-, ah. He’s not doing anything you caveman.”

“He’s pebbling.“

“What?”

You actually yelp when he sits up abruptly and rolls the two of you over. He’s annoyingly agile for someone his size. 

“Pebbling. He’s bringing you pebbles like a fucking penguin, and if he doesn’t stop, I’m going to stab him with an osteotome.” 

Whatever response you would have given disappears when he slides into you with one, deep thrust. You make a choked noise and reach immediately to brace your hands on his chest. He groans, low and filthy, and hikes one of your legs up on his hip. The new angle makes your head spin.

“You’re mine, imp.”

Needless to say, Brendon is less than thrilled when Edwards approaches you now. You’re standing at the charge desk, scribbling in the margins of your notebook, while Brendon stands on the opposite side taking to Patty. Edwards slides up next to you with his normal Crest-commercial grin firmly in place, looking flawless despite the ungodly hour. One thing you definitely will not miss about observing surgery is their ridiculous start times. 

“Hey, doc,” he greets.

“Not a doctor yet,” you reply automatically.

“Why, you planning on failing your defense?”

Your jaw drops.

“Of course not! And don’t put bad vibes out in the universe. What is wrong with you?”

He laughs and raises his hands in mock surrender.

“See? You’re going to pass, and you’ll be Dr. Y/l/n in no time.”

You smile despite yourself.

“I appreciate the vote of confidence.“

“Anytime. Speaking of which, are you going to research gala Sunday?”

It takes you a second to process the rapid shift in topics.

“Um, yes? How-, are you invited?”

The CMU/PTMC research collaborative was hosting its yearly gala to attract sponsors. The goal was to showcase some of their joint projects and emphasize the potential for both medical progress as well as financial growth. You’re not a fan of the latter, but you know it’s inevitable in the medical-industrial complex. All current grad students are expected to attend, and you’ve been waffling between excitement at a chance to dress up and dread over prolonged forced-socialization.

“Alumni have a standing invitation,” he answers with a wink.

You can’t help it. You risk a glance over at Brendon and wince when you see the stormy expression on his face. Even if you two weren’t keeping things on the down low right now, he’s on call this weekend. The hotel hosting the gala is just outside the twenty minute call radius, and he wouldn’t have been able to attend with you regardless.

“I’ll see you there?” Edwards asks, oblivious to your silent stare-off.

Well now your choices are lie or send Brendon into the stratosphere. 

Brendon will be fine.

“Yes,” you answer. “I’m actually doing one of the lightning talks.”

Edwards’ face lights up.

“That’s amazing! I look forward to hearing it; I’m sure you’re going to do great.”

He keeps talking, something about a friend who’s also giving a talk and another friend who something something. You don’t hear him. You’re too busy looking at Brendon, who meets your gaze with his lip curled just enough to mean danger.

Osteotome he mouths at you. 

You smile weakly.

The Pitt had the misfortune of beginning with a quiet morning. 

Now, it wasn’t truly quiet, because there was no such thing as “quiet” in an emergency department. Almost always, somebody or something was making noise. Somewhere down the hall a patient was demanding to speak to a supervisor for the third time in a row even though he’d been calmly told that an ER didn’t technically have a supervisor. A trauma alert had come through just before noon, though thankfully it had turned out to be less severe than anticipated. Residents moved with purposed between rooms, monitors still chimed from behind curtains, and the waiting room remained full of people convinced their emergency was the most important one in the building. 

Compared to mass casualties, however, the Pitt felt almost civilized. 

Unfortunately, civilized left room for obsessing over a diagnosis. 

And Frank Langdon was . . . well . . . obsessing over a diagnosis. 

The patient occupying room seventeen had arrived nearly four hours earlier complaining of persistent joint pain, intermittent fevers, severe fatigue, and a facial rash that had initially pointed everyone toward an autoimmune diagnosis. Her bloodwork, on the other hand, was irritatingly inconsistent. Every test seemed to support a theory while simultaneously undermining it. Frank, bless his heart, had spent most of the afternoon circling possibilities with increasing determination, convinced he was one clue card away from proving everyone else kept hesitating to commit to. 

Lupus was what he was trying to land on, but every time his brain came up with the word, something else refused to fit. 

The kidney involvement wasn’t severe enough. 

The inflammatory makers were elevated, but not where they should have been. 

The timeline was off. 

The symptoms fit until they didn’t. 

Which meant Frank had now spent the better part of an hour following Robby around the department explaining exactly why he was still right despite being entirely wrong. And poor Robby had endured this longer than most human beings would have. 

By the second trip to the nurses’ station, Trinity had quietly abandoned her charting in favor of getting away from the conversation under the guise of checking on another patient. 

By the third, even Dennis had found an excuse to disappear. 

By the fourth, Robby finally gave up. “Just call her for goodness’s sake.” 

Frank looked up from the tablet, and Robby was already regretting the decision. 

“On second thought, never mind.” 

“You literally just said—” 

“I know what I said, Langdon. And I changed my mind.” 

“Then why are you pulling out your pager?” 

Robby stared at him for a few minutes, pager gripped tightly in his hand like he’d been caught with dessert right before dinner. “Because if I have to hear you say It’s definitely lupus one more time, I’m personally transferring myself to veterinary medicine.” 

Twenty minutes later, you were dragged from the relative peace you liked to keep during your rounds and forced downstairs against your will. The elevator had done nothing to improve your mood that had been one large storm cloud since the morning, probably because of the pain your leg was giving you. 

Rain had rolled through the city overnight, and somehow, your leg always knew before the weather service did. A dep ache pulsed steadily through your hip with every shift of your weight, crawling down the damaged nerves along your thigh and settling unpleasantly into your knee. Your daily (and micromanaged) dose of Vicodin had taken the edge off several hours ago, but it was beginning to wear thin around the corners. 

You were tired and annoyed and judging by the message Robby gave you, nobody was actively dying, which also did nothing to make you excited about going down to the ER when you could have stayed upstairs talking to coma patients. 

The familiar sounds of the emergency department greeted you the moment the elevator doors opened. Conversations overlapped from every direction, phones rang, and the air carried that uniquely antiseptic-y smell that held hints of stale coffee and exhaustion. 

Your cane clicked rhythmically against the floor as you moved through the department, earning a few eyes from the nurses and even a flinch from a med student you accidentally made eye contact with. That had made you wonder how much your reputation had grown after the serotonin syndrome incident. 

Thankfully, you found Robby rather quickly near the nurses’ station as he reviewed a chart while simultaneously pretending not to be waiting for you. 

The pretending lasted approximately two seconds. 

“There she is,” he said, eyes wide behind his circular glasses. 

You narrowed your eyes. “Nobody’s dead, right?” 

“Right.” 

“Nobody’s actively trying to die, right?” 

“Not currently.” 

You sighted heavily, dragging a hand through your hair. “Then why am I here?” 

Robby handed over a chart that you just stared at without taking. Your nose scrunched at it, frown tugging at your lips. 

“I don’t like being handed things, Robert.” You looked around the station once—then twice—then a third time just to make sure before your expression flattened. “Where’s Jack? It’s been too long since I’ve laid eyes on that scrumptious ass.” 

Robby closed his eyes like a man whose worst fears had just been confirmed that they were coming to get him. “We aren’t doing this today.” 

You looked over his shoulder. “Where’s Samira?” 

“Also no.”

“Then whose patient is this?” 

“Langdon’s.”

Your frown somehow deepened. “You didn’t mention him.” 

“Because I knew you’d react like this.” 

“React like what, Robert?” 

“Like a child.” 

You finally accepted the chart, flipping through several pages while leaning against the counter, your cane resting near your leg. Halfway through the first page, your wariness deepened. Halfway through the second, it became certainty. When you finally looked up, Frank was approaching from room seventeen with the expression of a man who believed salvation had arrived. 

Too bad for him, you were the furthest thing from a savior. 

“Oh no,” you said loud enough for Frank to stop. 

“What?” he asked. 

“You look hopeful.” 

His confusion deepened. “You were called here to help.” 

You glared towards Robby. “I was called here under false pretenses.” 

Robby pinched the bridge of his nose as Frank looked between the two of you with a look that screamed I’m very lost in the sauce . . . actually I’m drowning in said sauce. 

Frank shifted his weight. “What are you talking about?” 

You shut the chart louder than you should have, but a lack of hot healthcare workers did little to ease your mood. “I need motivation.” 

“I have a patient?” 

“No, you don’t have anything since you gave me your patient.” 

“Same thing.” 

“It really isn’t.” 

Frank stared blankly, and you stared back equally. Around you, several nurses had started paying attention. Dennis and Trinity even appeared from seemingly nowhere, sensing entertainment with the instincts of a scavenger. Frank crossed his arms, and that didn’t even appeal to you. 

“Two weeks ago, you diagnosed a crashing serotonin syndrome patient in three minutes—” 

“Old news.”

“—And now you’re refusing to look at this one?” 

Pushing off the counter, you shrugged, cane back in your hand and holding your weight. “Jack was there. Like, have you seen the man when he’s looking at you like that? I almost popped girl boner.” 

The silence that followed was immediate. Trinity looked delighted, Robby looked exhausted, and Frank continued to look deeply confused. To make it all worse, you smirked and continued before Robby could give you a disappointed father look. 

“Samira too. Double girl boner.” 

“And there it is,” Robby grumbled. “Can we please not cause an HR violation before lunch.”

“It’s 3:30, and I haven’t even gotten started, party pooper.” 

“You just got here.” 

“Exactly! Many more hours for me to go.” 

“Wait,” Frank suddenly said as he what you weren’t saying together. 

“No,” Robby interrupted. “Don’t speak it into existence.” 

“Wait,” Frank repeated, incredibly appalled. “You’re refusing to help . . . because Abbot and Mohan aren’t here?” 

You mulled over his words between your teeth. “Refusing is a strong word—” 

“You’re literally doing the definition of refusing—” 

“I prefer selectively participating.” 

Trinity snorted loudly, and across the station, one of the nurses nearly dropped a pen. Beside you, Robby looked moments away from developing a stress-induced migraine, and you? You, meanwhile, remained completely serious (or at least appeared completely serious). 

The distinction mattered. 

Finally, after a silent standoff, Robby sighed the long, defeated sigh of a man who had spent years losing arguments against someone fundamentally immune to reason. You took that as your opening to smirk wildly up at him. That alone told everyone exactly what was about to happen. 

“Robert,” you drawled out in a teasing fashion. “I know you want to.” 

“No.” 

“Get Samira for me, please?” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Get Samira.” 

“You are a physician.” 

“And she’s very pretty.” 

“Not relevant.” 

“I completely have to disagree with you on this one.” 

Robby looked toward the ceiling briefly, perhaps searching for divine intervention. When he found none, and the heavens didn’t open up, he pointed toward Dennis. 

“Whitaker.”

Dennis straightened. “Dr. Robby?” 

“Please for the love of keeping her quiet, go get Dr. Mohan.” 

The grin spreading across your face was instantaneous. As Dennis disappeared around the corner, Frank had the decency to look horrified while Robby looked five minutes away from handing in his two-week notice. 

And somewhere deeper in the department, entirely unaware of the trap currently being assembled around her, Samira Mohan was about to have her afternoon become significantly more complicated. 

_______________________

By the time Samira arrived in room seventeen, she had already been informed by three separate people that she was being summoned for reasons that were apparently not medical. The first had come from Dennis, who had looked far too amused and scared while delivering the message. The second came from a nurse trying—and failing—not to laugh as she passed by. The third came from the sight that greeted her the moment she stepped through the doorway. 

You were sitting in the patient’s visitor chair. 

Not examining the patient, not review the cart, just plain old sitting down. 

Your bad leg—she guessed-was stretched slightly in front of you, your cane propped against the edge of the bed while Frank stood beside the monitor looking increasingly offended by your mere existence. Robby lingered near the doorway with his arms crossed, wearing the expression of a man who knew he was actively supervising a disaster but had accepted it as inevitable. 

The moment you noticed movement by the door, your attention snapped toward Samira, and a wide smile spread across your face so quickly it should have been illegal. 

“My eyes have been blessed,” you announced while looking right at her. 

Samira felt heat threaten to creep up into her face, which was a bit irritating because she’d spent the last several days mentally preparing herself for future interactions with you. Apparently going over any flirty comments you might throw at her in preparation hadn’t helped. 

“You called for me?” she asked. 

You nodded. “I did.” 

“You do realize that’s not how consults work.” 

“I disagree.” 

“You aren’t even looking at the patient.” 

“I looked at her,” you said, eyes glancing toward the women briefly before looking back towards Samira. “But now I’d rather look at you.” 

Samira glanced toward Robby, which earned her a pointed finger from the man. 

“Don’t encourage her,” Robby warned. 

“I didn’t do anything?” she shot back hesitantly, not understanding what she had done other than step into the room. 

“Unfortunately, your existence is currently encouraging her.” 

The patient laughed loudly, entirely happy with being in the middle of the whole exchange, which somehow made the entire situation worse. You kept your eyes on Samira, completely unbothered as you made a come here motion with your finger. 

“Come closer; I promise I won’t bite,” you said before adding, “unless you want me to.” 

Your request wasn’t really a request and more of an expectation in the same way attendings expected residents to approach a scan or review a lab result. Your voice held no arrogance, no attempt to show off. The tone told Samira that you had a certainty that you expected her to keep up. Oddly enough, it felt different than most of the physicians she’d worked with. 

Robby taught by leading with a booming voice and a no-nonsense attitude. 

You, on the other hand, taught by dragging people directly into your thought process and forcing them to survive, completely with all the nonsense available. 

With that, Samira stepped closer to the bed. 

The patient—a woman who looked to be in her early forties—offered her a sympathetic smile. “Do you always work with her?” 

Samira shook her head. “No, ma’am.” 

“That’s unfortunate. She’s been very entertaining.” 

With once glance toward you, you looked please by the compliment while Frank, who had now moved closer to your chair, looked wounded by it, like he was sad he had been thrown to a corner while this had started off as his case. 

“Can we focus please?” he asked. 

“No,” you snapped. “But we’ll diagnose her anyway. You already dragged me down here, might as well show off a bit, yeah?” 

You finally stood, reaching for the chart resting at the end of the bed. The movement was smooth enough until your weight shifted fully onto your bed leg. Something painful tightened around your eyes before disappearing against just as quickly. Samira noticed; you noticed her noticing; neither of you acknowledged it. 

Instead, you handed over the chart. “Walk me through it.” 

Frank opened his mouth to retaliate but quickly shut up by the look you threw his way. The whole time, the woman looked delighted and Robby looked like a middle school teacher asked to chaperone a group during a free trip on his supposed day off. 

Samira accepted the chart, deep, brown eyes skimming through the notes, and rattled off the symptoms. “Joint pain. Facial rash. Intermittent fevers. Fatigue.” 

“Good.” 

“Positive ANA.” 

“Keep going.” 

Samira flipped another page while the room settled around her as she reviewed the information. Frank stopped looking like a kicked puppy, and even Robby looked interested now, leaning slightly away from the wall. Samira thought that there was something strangely intimate about being taught this way, and she realized it was similar to the way Jack walked her through a procedure during a trauma. 

Even though he didn’t openly flirty with her like you did, the two of you watched with a certainty that she would be able to figure it all out with enough guidance. Where most listened for mistakes, you actively listened for possibilities without being overly critical if she got it wrong. You opened the door wide open for mistakes and welcomed them. Every answer she gave seemed to spark another question rather than another correction. 

When she finished, you stepped over to the patient. “Now, what fits, Dr. Mohan?” 

“Autoimmune disease,” she answered with confidence. 

“Specifically?”

She hesitated. “Lupus would fit—” 

“That’s what I said,” Frank cut her off. 

You didn’t even look at him. “But what doesn’t fit?” 

Your question hung in the air, and Samira frowned as she mentally went through the notes again. 

The rash. 

The joint pain. 

The fevers. 

Everything pointed in one direction except . . . 

Her eyes moved further down the page, and then back up, and then down again before her eyes widened. She looked up grinning. 

“The kidneys.”

You grinned back. “There you go.” 

Frank frowned deeply. “What about the kidneys?” 

Samira stepped closer. “The involvement isn’t progressing correctly, and the inflammatory markers aren’t matching what we’d expect if it was lupus.” 

You nodded. “And?” 

She pushed forward. “The rash isn’t completely right either.” 

“What else?” 

She studied the chart one final time before stopping on a note buried halfway through the intake paperwork. A symptom everybody had acknowledged but not focused on was jotted down in neat penmanship. Through the past couple of hours, the one symptom hadn’t fit until now. 

“Oh,” Samira breathed, and somehow your smile widened even further. 

Robby was on the edge of his metaphorical seat. “What?” 

“It’s not lupus.” Samira shook her head. “It’s Lyme disease.”

At her diagnosis, you looked like a child that had just been handed a present. 

Frank stared defeatedly. “No.” 

“Yes,” you said. 

“No.” 

“Langdon.”

“The ANA—”

“Can be positive.” 

“The rash—”

“Can also happen.” 

“The joint pain—” 

“Very happens.” You rolled your eyes. “And you call yourself a doctor.” 

Frank looked personally betrayed by everything in existence. 

You folded your arms, and with all the satisfaction of someone delivering a punchline they’d been waiting twenty minutes to use, you said, “It’s never lupus.” 

The patient started laughing again, and even Robby smile. 

The diagnosis confirmed itself surprisingly quickly after that when a more focused history revealed a hiking trip several months earlier. Additional testing was ordered, and treatment plans were discussed. And just like that, the mystery vanished, allowing the room to relax. Eventually, Robby ushered Frank back toward the station before he could launch into another lupus argument. 

The woman thanked everyone, especially Samira who whispered a small you’re welcome before walking out the door. 

You were the last to leave, wanting nothing more than to go back upstairs for peace and quiet, or at least you planned to leave quickly. The first few steps went normally before your leg gave out enough that your balance shifted sharply and that your cane struck the ground harder than intended to overcompensate to get you back to being stable. 

However, before you could truly do that, Samira’s hands were around your arm and pulling before either of you fully processed what happened. Her hands, you thought, were warm against your skin. 

Concern was written plainly across Samira’s face. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” came flying out in a way that sounded too rehearsed to be genuine. 

Unfortunately, she didn’t look convinced. And even more unfortunately, you were currently trying to pretend your hip hadn’t just sent a bolt of pain all the way into your spine. 

“You almost fell,” she said softly. 

“I almost did, you’re right. Very importantly distinction than to actually falling.” 

Her concern stubbornly remained, and her expression made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t particularly enjoy looking at. So, instead, you reached for a safer territory: humor. 

“You know,” you said lightly, adjusting your grip on your cane, “most people wait until the third date before grabbing me like that.” 

A flush climbed Samira’s face, and you believed that was so much better than the concern she had for you. You smiled, proud of yourself for the reaction you got out of her, before straightening. 

You looked down at her hands that were still currently holding onto your arm. “You know, if you ever need help with a case . . .” You nodded vaguely toward the elevators at the end of the hall. “Come find me upstairs.” 

Samira gently let go of you once she knew you were stable on your feet and smiled almost bashfully. “I might take you up on that.” 

On a rare occurrence, you looked away first. “Good.” 

You started toward the elevators, cane clicking steadily against the floor before you paused halfway down the hallway, face turning to glance back over your shoulder.

“Just so we’re clear, Dr. Homan,” you called. 

Samira laughed. “Here we go.” 

“If anyone asks, this was entirely your diagnosis.” 

_______________________

The trauma arrived twenty-three minutes before shift change—not that anyone in the Pitt particularly cared about the clock anymore. Well, they did, but they’d learned long ago that their shifts never ended on the dot. 

The day had stretched long past the point of exhaustion almost two hours ago, settling into the familiar start where the day shift started operating on instinct and year-in-the-making caffeine addictions alone. They moved through the department with practiced sluggishness while the night shift seemed to bound through the doors wide away, alert, and enthusiastic. 

For the smallest, tiniest moment, everything felt manageable. 

Until the trauma alarm decided to ring and send everything to shit. 

Samira found Jack in the Trauma Bay 1 before the patient even arrived. 

He was already pulling on gloves, already mentally several steps ahead of everyone else in the room. This suited him in a way she suspected he hated hearing about. He seemed to just come alive as much as an overly exhausted night shift attending could. His aura just exuded an I got this handled boldness that was never arrogant and garish. The Pitt just followed his lead without him even having to speak a word. 

However, Samira enjoyed the small moments between dropping pressure and gushing blood that Jack seemed to cherry pick to guide her through a chest tube or some procedure he’d read the night before from a foreign magazine. 

And each time, he conjured that special patience and openness that you gave her earlier. It was something she liked much more than she would ever admit out loud. 

She shook her head of the thoughts when the patient arrived surrounded by paramedics and confusion. 

“Thirty-something-year-old male. Motorcycle accident. Conscious and talking on scene,” one of the paramedics rattled off as he guided the gurney into the room. 

However, the man on the gurney looked significantly sicker than his injuries should have allowed. As information was spat out, the room began developing the same uncomfortable feeling Samira had experienced earlier in room seventeen. 

She was quick to get a reading. “He’s hypotensive.” 

“And tachycardic,” the nurse near his head announced. 

Jack racked his eyes over the man’s face. “And sweating like a sinner in church.” 

“Oxygen 82 percent, and BP is dropping.” 

Samira shook her head. “This doesn’t make sense.” 

“Someone get me a CT and labs,” Jack grumbled, hands ripping away the man’s vest before someone cut away the rest of his shirt. “Ultrasound too.” 

A nurse pushed the machine toward Samira, who quickly squirted the gel on his abdomen before pushing the wand into his skin. Her eyes glued to the black and white monitor. “No free fluid.” 

“What are we missing,” he hissed. 

Around the room, everyone exchanged increasingly uncertain looks as Jack and Samira scrambled to reassess, reorder scans, and reimagine the injuries in a way that would make sense to them. If they spouted a theory, it never survived more than a few minutes because another piece of evidence arrived to destroy it. 

Samira stood near the foot of the bed listening to vitas being called out while watching Jack work through possibilities one by one. The frustration wasn’t obvious, and most people wouldn’t have noticed. But she did. 

Her eyes shifted toward the patient, then up toward the monitor, and then to the side toward Jack. Somewhere among the three, her answer on what to do became crystal clear. The diagnosis was still miles away, but the solution happened to be close. 

Three floors up close. 

Before she fully thought through the decision, she was already stripping off her gloves. The motion had Jack looking up. 

“Where are you going?” 

His confusion was reasonable considering she appeared to be abandoning an active trauma. Samira was already backing toward the doorway. 

“I’ll be right back.” 

Jack stared after her, and she was around the corner before he could even blink. 

Luckily, the trip upstairs took less than two minutes, and she found you exactly where she’d expected: curled sideways in chair with a chart balanced across your lap and a half-finished cup of coffee siting nearby. The moment she appeared in the hallway your eyes lifted from the paperwork before narrowing. 

“When I said if you ever need help with a case, I really thought it’d be like days.” 

“Jack and I have a patient that’s crashing, and nothing’s sticking.” 

You sighed dramatically and slapped the chart down onto the side table. “I guess I assumed there’d be at least a twenty-four-hour waiting period.” 

But despite the complaint, you were already reaching for your cane. The minute you stood, Samira noticed the way your jaw tightened when you stood and the way your hand lingered on the armrest and the brief flicker of discomfort that crossed your face before disappearing completely. 

You, like that last time, noticed her noticing, and chose violence instead of ignorance. 

“If you keep looking at me like that, Dr. Mohan, we might have to do some medical research in the supply closet downstairs.” 

Samira rolled her eyes but was able to keep the heat in her cheeks at bay. 

By the time you entered the trauma bay, the atmosphere had shifted from concern into outright confusion. You took one glance around the room and immediately noticed that no one had been able to help the man in the bed. 

Jack was the first to look up, and for half a second his expression brightened with obvious relief before he remembered himself. “Oh.” 

“Other than my eyes on your ass, what’s happening, Jack Rabbit” 

“Well, this guy here is actively dying.”

“Sounds like a fun time.” 

You limped further into the room. The pain radiating through your hip had graduated from irritating to miserable somewhere during the elevator ride, but that was tomorrow’s problem. Right now, Jack looked frustrated, Samira looked concerned, and there was a patient actively trying to die in front of them. 

Priorities.

“You know,” you said while reaching the bedside, “most people who drag me around at least offers a dinner first.” 

Jack muttered your name. “The patient please.” 

“I’m looking at him.” 

“No, you’re looking at my chest right now.” 

“You like it.” 

“I’d like it if you looked at the other guy first and me later.” 

You snickered. “So there is a later? Good to know.” 

A nearby nurse turned away, and Samira bit down a laugh. Jack looked as though he was reconsidering several life choices. Very satisfied, you finally turned your attention toward the patient. The room quieted as your attentiveness narrowed like it always did. The shift from impossible to brilliant remained unsettling no matter how many times people witnessed it. 

Your eyes moved rapidly between the monitor, the patient, the scans clipped to the screen nearby. You barely spoke, barely moved as the room continued feeding you information while you assembled it into something coherent. 

A minute passed, and suddenly, the answer appeared before anyone else caught on. Jack watched as your expression shifted. 

“There,” you said, eyes trained on the man’s face. 

Jack stepped closer, trying to get in your line of sight. “What?” 

You pointed your cane at him. “Everybody’s looking at the accident.” 

“Because he was in one,” Jack scoffed. 

“Exactly.” You nodded. “Which is why you’re all missing the thing that was trying to kill him before the motorcycle got involved. Look closely at his mouth.” 

Everyone’s eyes followed up to his face. 

There. 

Samira’s eyes widened at the slight tug downward of the man’s left cheek, a stark contrast to the tense right side of his face. She breathed a sigh of odd relief. 

“He’s having a stroke,” she said out loud. 

The bay erupted into a different kind of rhythm as Jack barked for changed orders and more consults after the treatment shifted. Within minutes, the entire trajectory of the trauma had transformed. The patient stabilized, and the panic evaporated, and suddenly the room no longer needed you. 

Your leg noticed first that the adrenaline that had carried you through the consult vanished almost immediately. By the time the trauma team started settling into cleanup and charting, every step felt increasingly questionable. So, you left, simply making it around the corner before finding an empty bench tucked beside a quiet halfway and lowering yourself onto it with a long exhale. 

The relief was instantaneous, but not enough. 

Your hip throbbed steadily beneath the surface while the rest of your body slowly remembered how tired it actually was. You rested your cane beside you and leaned your head back against the wall to spend the next few blessed minutes where nobody bothered you. 

When shadows appeared across the floor, you opened one eye. 

Jack and Samira were standing over you, both their faces full of concern. 

You closed your one eye again. “Am I under investigation, doctors, or is staring down at a cripple a new implement in patient care?” 

Samira settled onto the bench to your right while Jack leaned against the wall to your left. The two of them looked frustratingly united in purpose. You disliked it. 

“You should be taking it easy,” Samira said. 

You hummed. “Tell that to the gorgeous resident who came to get me.” 

“You could have said your leg was bothering you.” 

This time, you opened your eyes and turned your head to fully look at you. “My leg always bothers me.” 

You glanced toward Jack for support, but instead, he folded his arms. 

Traitor.

 Jack watched the fight practically melt from your body. “You almost collapsed leaving the trauma bay.” 

“Collapsed feels dramatic even for you. Do we need to talk about that one time your prothesis—”

“No we do not; we’re talking about you and how you nearly fell.” 

“Nearly is carrying a lot of weight in that sentence.” 

Neither looked convinced, and worse, neither of them looked like they intended to leave. You knew that the two were probably stubborn as hell. You’d spent years becoming very good at redirecting attention elsewhere. Patients and diagnoses were easier. People worrying about you was uncomfortable zone. 

“You know,” you said thoughtfully, adjusting your position on the bench, “I’ve noticed something medically fascinating while we’ve been sitting here.” 

Jack sighed loudly, making both you and Samira smile. 

“My leg hurts less when attractive doctors are hovering nearby. I don’t know if it’s science or divine intervention, but I think the results have been extremely promising.”

“That’s not how pain management works,” Jack huffed, but his smile gave everything away. 

You pointed toward him. “I totally understand what you’re saying. We definitely need more research.” 

Samira laughed, and the sound warmed something unexpectedly soft inside your chest. The feeling made you want more. 

“What exactly are you proposing?” Jack questioned, crossing his arms in front of his chest. 

You considered for a moment and glanced toward the ceiling before smiling. “I’m saying if the two of you keep hanging around me, I might start requesting your presence for reasons entirely non-medical.” 

Jack closed his eyes. “You are unbelievable.” 

“Samira laughed! Besides, don’t you think doctor-recommended treatment plans are important?” 

“You’re making this up.” 

“Jack, that is a serious accusation. I might have to write you up to HR for that.” 

“I think HR would take my side over yours.” 

You looked over at Samira. “Do you hear the audacity he has?” 

She rolled her eyes fondly. “I think he might be right.” 

You tipped your head back until it thunked against the wall. “This is the worst dream of my life. Surrounded by hot doctors and yet they’re ganging up on me instead of bending to my wishes.” 

The three of you remained there for a few moments longer while the sounds of the Pitt drifted around the corner. For once, nobody seemed particularly eager to move. While the pain in your leg remained exactly where it had always been, sitting there between two people who had followed you simply because they were worried made it a little easier to ignore. 

And though you would absolutely never admit it out loud, that might have been the most effective treatment you’d found all day. 

🏷️ mohabbot tags: @princessjas1-11 @karmalymaly @pinkpantheris @org12 @elenamoncadaibarra @sl22ping-sir3n @hollymurdock @fictionallygabby @small-mean-dwarf @haunted1nk @sir-thisisadndserver @milflover-72