poppy

One had been asking if you needed help moving equipment.

One had been asking where Dr Mohan was.

The third had been an exhausted "Morning" at six-thirty after twenty straight hours in the hospital.

That was the extent of it.

Just another coworker.

Polar opposites. 

Day and night. 

Park. 

Your relation to the intimidating ortho surgeon wasn’t unknown to the entirety of the ED. 

Perhaps not common knowledge to those who clung to the day shift. But to those who frequented the nights in the ED. 

They all knew who your brother was. 

And it came as no surprise to them when they saw you side by side. 

The way you both held yourselves. It was eerily similar. Almost identical in the way you behaved. 

Work oriented and blunt, straight to the point. 

Though this was a fact that Mateo had yet to discover. 

Not until he had switched over to the ‘dark side’ as he had jokingly named it when talking with Javadi. 

From afar at times you appeared calm. 

Approachable even. 

Which Mateo would come to understand was not to be mistaken for friendliness.

‘Oh, look, a friendly little dolphin – It's a shark! It's a shark, and it ain't friendly! It looks like a dolphin. Tricky fish! Tricky fish!’ 

At least that was how it seemed when Mateo had begun working nights. 

When he was figuring out how it all worked. How everyone worked together. 

The environment was the same and yet the dynamic of it all was drastically different from anything he’d known from the day shift. 

Like they had warned him, the nights could certainly get…wild.

And then there was you. 

Level headed, calm and collected. 

It was well after midnight by now, and thankfully was quiet…not that anyone would say that aloud. 

So you were taking the opportunity to filter through the imaging requests. Ranking what was most to least urgent.   

Ensuring that everything was in order. Cross checking what had been left over from the day shift. 

Lips pulled tight into a thin line. Brows furrowed whilst you worked. Patience wearing thin. 

And no one knew that better than those on the night shift. They’d worked enough shifts with you to know that when the coffee wore off. 

Your tone would become clipped. 

Short. 

The way your eyebrow would begin twitching whenever someone interrupted you for something stupid. 

So to mitigate that. It would be routine for someone on staff to drop a coffee off for you. 

Tonight that was Abbot’s duty, while he had walked up to you with a fresh coffee in hand, placing it right before you with a small nod. 

As you shot him a thumbs up whilst you took a sip. A small smile forming on your face as a sigh slips from your lips. 

Letting the warmth of the coffee slip in. 

Those on the night shift shared an understanding that so long as you were caffeinated he could stop you from biting someone’s head off until at least 4 am… 

Definitely made it easier to request imaging when you were in a more agreeable mood. 

And from a far, Mateo had looked up catching a glimpse of your smile. 

The rarity of it all. 

Not once had he ever seen you smile before. And then–

He heard your laugh. 

Melodic and almost displaced coming from you. Moreso a chuckle, but it was a laugh nonetheless. 

As Abbot joked with you, just trying to pass the time until the ED would inevitably be thrown into chaos once more. 

But then your demeanour shifted once more. Whilst Abbot walked away headed onto the next case. 

You were headed towards yours. 

Shoulders pushed back. Steely eyes. 

An air surrounding you. One that screamed do not disturb. A woman on a mission. 

No longer smiling, just simply there, working. 

“Did you check the vitals for– Mateo?” the faint clicking of fingers snap in his face, “Mateo”

“Yeah?” he’s broken from his daze, gaze drifting down to meet Lena’s. Her brow raised as she looked at him expectantly. 

“Barely midnight and you’re already dozing off”

He grins with a shake of his head. 

“Well good, can’t have you shifting back onto days, they’ll start thinking we did something terrible to you,” she continued to joke. 

He rolled his eyes. Before changing the conversation, “So what’s Y/N’s deal?”

“Y/N? Oh, you mean Park?” Her eyes follow to find you across the room, as you wheel in a portable x-ray machine. Professional and polite as you work diligently. 

He questioned, “Park?” catching the attention of Ellis as she passed by. 

“You didn’t know?” Lena tilted her head. 

“Know what?” Mateo’s brows knitted together. 

Ellis grinned, jutting her head towards you, “Y/N’s our very own resident shark” 

“Shark as in, ortho’s shark”

“That’s the one,” Ellis and Lena nod. 

“No”

Ellis nods, “Oh yes” 

“But–”

She shrugs, “But what? Haven’t you seen them, they’re almost carbon copies of each other” 

While Lena heads back to the nurses station with a small smile. 

Ellis lets out a small chuckle, clasping her hand on Mateo’s shoulder, “Just be lucky our shark’s more agreeable with a bit of coffee in her, and just hope she won’t bite your head off” 

And so. Mateo had developed a little personal goal. 

A goal to make you smile. 

He knew it was possible. He had seen it done. 

He just didn’t know how. 

One evening he had simply come up to you, cheerful as usual. The exhaustion of the night had yet to seep in. 

“What do you want?” you asked, barely even looking up from the scans you were assessing. 

Stunned by your clipped tone, he tries to shrug it off, “Nothing, just wanted to say hi”

You look up at him. 

Unimpressed. 

You hum with a small nod. 

“Well, hi,” he follows up awkwardly. 

“Hello,” your voice was steady. As your attention turns back to your work. 

That attempt had quickly been determined an utter failure. 

Unaware of you flipping the fuck out inside...

No matter what he tried, he was never quite able to push past your boundaries. 

Not that he didn't try.

God, he tried.

You weren't rude.

That was the thing. 

People assumed you were rude.

They assumed the clipped responses and professional distance meant you disliked everyone equally.

But Mateo had learned that wasn't true.

You were polite.

Helpful.

Reliable.

You'd answer questions.

Show your colleagues and explain how the equipment worked. You’d help them track down scans.

But the second things threatened to become personal? Your guard went straight up. 

There was no getting through.

At least not for most people. 

Your resolve only ever cracking for a select view, and only ever briefly. Whether it be Shen passing by with a sarcastic remark. Or when Ellis would come by to tease you whilst you worked. Abbot would always check in, his humour never failed to make you crack a smile. 

Especially when Abbot would drop off a coffee to you. 

With that in mind. 

Mateo had convinced himself he could speed up the process.

One particularly miserable shift, Abbot had been making his usual coffee delivery rounds.

A sacred ritual at this point.

Everyone knew your caffeine schedule better than some of the patients' medication lists.

Mateo had looked up from his charting, catching Abbot before he could walk past, "Let me take it."

Abbot blinked, "What?"

"The coffee,” Mateo gestured to the cup in his hand. 

"...Why?" Jack raised a brow while he looked towards you. 

Mateo immediately regretted asking. Several heads lifted from nearby computers. Nurses exchanging looks.

Mateo ignored them. While Abbot’s grin widened.

Dangerously so.

"Mateo."

"Just give me the coffee."

"Mateo," Abbot probed once more, with a knowing look in his eyes. 

Mateo does his best to ignore Abbot’s tone, while he asks once more, "Give me the coffee."

The look Abbot gave him could only be described as deeply entertained. Still, he'd handed it over.

Mateo walked across the department.

Coffee in hand.

Trying very hard not to feel like everyone was watching. Because they absolutely were.

You barely looked up when he arrived.

"Abbot's outsourcing now?" you asked dryly. 

He set the cup down beside you, "He was busy."

A lie.

A terrible lie.

You looked up at him. Just for a second. Then at the coffee. Then back to your work.

"Thank you," you nodded. Hand curling around the cup as you take a sip. 

That was it.

No smile.

No conversation.

Nothing.

Shoulders slumped in defeat, Mateo returned to the nurses' station under a chorus of barely concealed laughter.

Abbot looked insufferably pleased.

And somehow that almost made Mateo more determined.

Because there had to be something under all that professionalism.

There had to be.

Turns out the answer was sleep deprivation.

Or maybe shared suffering.

Possibly both.

The shift had been horrific. One of those nights where every ambulance in Pittsburgh seemed determined to arrive simultaneously. 

Too much had happened that night. Too many things that had piled up. A sea of chaos that you all worked to control. 

Until soon it steadied. Adrenaline wearing thin, the coffee barely able to tackle the fatigue from your bones. 

That was when Mateo had started humming, quiet enough that it didn’t disturb anyone, just amusing his tired mind. Something to take it off the shit it just went through. 

Even for just a moment. 

It just so happened that his humming had coincided with you passing by, the squeak of the rolling wheels and the shuffle of your feet filling the air. 

Then the tune hits your ears. 

Familiar. 

Iconic. 

"Dun... dun... dun... dun... dun-dun-dun-dun…”

Mateo hummed with a small grin. 

And instead of snapping or telling him to quit it. He had instead caught a glimpse of the quirk of your lip. 

The small airy laugh slipping from your lips with a shake of your head. 

And that was his way in. 

After that, the joke never died. 

Each time you passed him, or entered the room. Mateo would flash you a smile as he’d start humming the tune of Jaws. 

And it never failed to bring a smile to your face. 

Even as you groaned when you heard the first dun, leave his lips. 

Even as you grumbled to complain. 

“I’m literally carrying imaging equipment,” you said. 

“Dun–dun, dun” 

“You’re how old again?” 

He shrugs, “What’s it matter, you can’t tell me its not catchy”

You’d huff, biting back the grin forming on your face. Even as you complained. Deep down, his humming never failed to amuse you. 

He didn’t know what to expect from you. 

All he had known when starting was that you were;

The radiology tech on the night shift. 

Park the Shark’s sister. 

And well. 

You had a beautiful smile. Whenever it appeared. 

Especially when he was the one to make it happen, it elicited a feeling of warmth to settle into his chest. 

It was surprising to him the way you affected him

But the thing that surprised Mateo the most wasn't your smile. It wasn’t the fact that the theme tune of Jaws made you laugh. 

No, the most surprising thing he had discovered was just how funny you were.

Because nobody warned him about that. Not a single person on the night shift had given him a heads up, that you were hilarious. 

But only with those you let into your inner circle. 

The first time it happened he nearly choked.

Someone was complaining loudly.

Being dramatic. Making everyone's shift harder. Making their problems, everyone else’s problem.

The second they walked away Mateo sighed, "Difficult patient."

Without missing a beat you retorted, "Patient implies patience."

Mateo laughed so hard he snorted.

You looked mildly horrified. Then immediately started laughing too.

After that he began paying attention.

And realized you'd been making jokes the entire time.

Jokes that were dry.

Sharp.

So perfectly timed.

The kind that arrived so deadpan people needed a second to realize you'd said something funny.

You'd mutter things under your breath.

Offer one-liners that made his belly ache from laughter.

Completely dismantle someone's nonsense with a single sentence.

And every time. Mateo laughed.

Every single time.

The sound echoing through the department.

Warm and genuine.

Which only encouraged you.

Though you'd never admit it. You were developing a soft spot for the nurse. Each time you saw him now, it took everything within you to stifle the smile that threatened to grow. 

The changes between you had happened so gradually. 

Shifting. 

From mere colleagues. 

To friends. 

To something that neither of you could quite name. 

You’d let yourself linger for a few moments after your conversations. Seeking him out if something made you laugh. Tucking little stories into the corner of your mind for the next time you’d see him. 

With each coffee delivery, instead of Abbot or Lena, it would now be Mateo’s smiling face that would greet you in the twilight hours. Warm coffee in hand. 

It did not go unnoticed by those that worked with you. 

Watching as you’d soften around Mateo. 

How your eye lines would drift over to meet the other. 

It was obvious. 

That you two were catching feelings for each other. 

Even those from the day shift had begun to catch on. In the overlapping of shifts, as you waved goodbye, curt, a small nod towards your colleagues. 

But Cassie noticed how you wouldn’t leave. Not until you said your goodbye with Mateo. 

And she grinned from afar as she watched you two talk, how Mateo seemed to have this look in his eyes. Sparkling. Alight. 

There was something there. 

And one evening, as he walked in to start his shift, just as Cassie was ending hers. 

She decided to let him know just what she thought was happening. 

“Anything you want to tell me?” she has questioned, with a small arch of her brow. 

He looked at her in confusion, “Uh–No?” 

“You sure?” she continued. 

“What’s this about?” 

She hums with a small shrug, “Just noticed you’ve gotten pretty cosy with Y/N and was wondering if anything was happening–but if not, just tell me to back off and I will” 

His mouth twists, mind racing as it flicks through the memories he shares with you. 

“Ok. Maybe,” he relents. 

“And?” 

“And there’s nothing else. Really”

“But you’d like there to be,” she follows up. 

He takes a moment, unable to verbalise the mess of feelings cultivating inside, how you had managed to make his head spin. 

“Just don’t know if she’s interested”

Truly, he still couldn’t get a read on you. Not able to decipher whether your friendliness could lead to anything more. 

At first he'd dismissed it. Dismissing how your presence made his heart race. How he’d turn in an instant at the sound of your voice. 

You were his friend.

One of his favorite people to work with.

The person who could make a twelve-hour night shift feel manageable.

The person whose dry comments could have him laughing in the middle of absolute chaos.

That was enough.

It should’ve been enough. 

And yet. 

Mateo couldn’t help but wonder…what if it could be something more….

Cassie elbows his side, as she praises him softly, “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re funny, kind and completely into her–look the most you can do is try, otherwise you’ll never know”

He nods, taking her words to heart. 

“You should get home, get some sleep before those eye bags become permanent,” he joked. Trying to alleviate the emotions he was feeling. 

Cassie let out a small huff in laughter, rolling her eyes. “Have a good night”

“Always do,” he grinned, while she walked away. 

That conversation had planted a seed in his mind. 

Perhaps. 

With every passing moment as you and he grew closer, the conversation would creep back into his mind. The possibility. Growing more and more appealing. 

Until he had finally said it out loud. 

He had rushed to catch up with you, as the morning sun hung in the sky, the air crisp. A slight chill still lingering from the night. Not yet warmed by the sun. 

As you shrug on your jacket. 

“Hey, wait up–” 

Mateo’s voice slipped past your headphones, just as you were about to pop them in. You turn around, tilting your head at the sound of his voice. 

Brows furrowing as he comes to stop before you, “Did I forget something?” 

“What–No. I just.” 

You asked, “What?” 

Why was this so hard? It really shouldn’t feel this difficult.

He dealt with trauma patients. Critical emergencies. Life or death situations. And yet somehow. 

This was so much harder. 

Here goes nothing.

“I was wondering if…” His voice cracked. Great. Fantastic.

You tried very hard not to smile, amused and curious all at once, “If?” 

Taking in a deep breath, he built his courage once more. 

“If you’d maybe like to go out sometime…With me?” 

Silence. 

Not a long silence. But long enough for panic to brew within Mateo. Preparing for rejection. 

You blink. 

Surprise flooding your features. 

For once your calm, controlled expression cracks. Fracturing into one of complete shock. 

“Oh” 

Oh. Mateo’s stomach sank. 

Your eyes flickering down before meeting his once more, “You’re asking me out?” 

“Yes,” he swallowed the lump that had grown in his throat. All confidence dwindles with each passing moment.

“Like–” your mind races as you try to process this all, your hand gestures between you both, “on a date?” 

“I’m hoping so, yes,” he nods. “Unless you don’t–”

You cut him off, “No, no, it’s not that. It’s just. Uh–”

You were speechless. 

Your cold demeanour kept most people at arms length. Had made most people double guess themselves. 

It meant that most of the time you were left alone. 

Never once really being the first choice. 

Not until now. 

“I’m just surprised. I’m not usually the one people ask out,” the words came out so casually, almost jokingly. And yet there was an undertone of something deeper to the words, something honest. Raw. 

Mateo stared at you. 

Then frowned. 

“What?” 

All you can muster is a small shrug, “I don’t know” 

“You don’t know?” 

His question only makes a small laugh bubble from you, airy with no weight to it, tone dry as you remark, “Guys don’t exactly line up”

His response had come out instantaneously. 

He simply couldn’t help it, as he replied, “Then it's their loss” his voice soft. 

Your eyes snapped back up to his.

He hadn't meant to say it so quickly. Hadn't meant for it to sound so sincere.

But it was.

Every word.

"Because you're smart."

You blinked, "Mateo–"

"And funny."

You laughed.

He kept going, "And you somehow make the worst shifts bearable."

"That's a low bar."

"Still counts,” The smile threatening your lips grew.

“So–how about that date?” he smiled, “Is it still an ‘I don’t know’? Or is it a yes? Because I really hope it's the latter”

“Yeah” 

“Yeah?” The look in his eye was so hopeful. 

“Yeah,” you confirmed once more. 

The grin that broke out across his face was immediate. Unrestrained. 

And in light of that. It had made the soft smile on your face widen. 

It was the beginning of something new for you. He balanced out your sharp edges. Breaking past your steely facade. Knowing the real you, with each passing date. 

And just as he learnt more about you.

You learnt more about him. 

More than simply the happy guy that looked out for those he worked with, more than just a nurse who took the extra mile when it came to his work. More than just the guy that never failed to leap at an opportunity to make a joke. 

No. Mateo was more complex than that. 

And you were privy to learning about it all. 

It felt natural. Familiar. 

Like you had both somehow been building towards this for months without ever realising it. 

You learned Mateo talked with his hands when he got excited.

That he sang terribly in the car.

That he could never remember where he parked. Despite that he was always so reliable. 

And so much more. 

All of which you were growing to love. 

While you’d catch his eye from across the room, already looking at you with a softness that made your stomach flutter.

Already wondering how he'd gotten so lucky.

Because somewhere between humming the Jaws theme and sharing coffee after night shifts–

You had become his favorite part of the week.

And judging by the way your smile appeared whenever he walked into a room. 

He was becoming yours too.

There was just one thing you hadn’t quite arranged yet. 

While Mateo was growing to love you. And all that made you, you. 

You hadn’t quite managed to arrange for him to meet your brother…in fact. You were definitely avoiding that. 

While you knew you could be clipped at times. 

Could be blunt. 

Standoffish. 

Your brother was in a whole other league. 

And the ED certainly had stories to tell when it came to your fearsome brother. 

In fact the topic of your brother had taken up a good chunk of one of your dates with Mateo, as you worked to reassure him that–

“Brendon won’t kill you for dating me,” you had huffed, leaning against him as you laid across the couch, brows furrowing as you tilted to look up at Mateo, “–It feels like we’re a few too many dates into this to only now be talking about it.”

To which Mateo replied, “Just thought I should check, baby–I don’t really want to become a patient in the ED, because your brother decided I’m not good enough for you”

That had earned him a shove from you from his joke. 

“You’re ridiculous,” you huffed. 

He argued, voice muffled as he buried his face into the top of your head, "I'm serious."

"You work in emergency medicine," you said with a raised brow. 

"Exactly"

"You see horrible things every day," you added.l 

“Yup,” he agreed. 

Shifting slightly, you move to face him, "And you're scared of my brother?"

"Have you met your brother?"

You opened your mouth.

Paused.

Closed it again.

It had done very little to quell his worries when it came to your brother. 

He remembered crossing paths with him during his time on the day shift. How easily he could reduce a med student’s confidence into complete rubble. 

And that was to someone who wasn’t dating his sister. 

The man could reduce someone's confidence to dust with a single raised eyebrow.

And somehow he rarely raised his voice.

Which made it worse.

Far worse.

So it was fair to say that you weren't necessarily eager to throw your boyfriend into that particular shark tank.

But sooner or later. 

Mateo was to be thrown into the deep end. 

The department was in the midst of a shift change, as the slough of day shifters stepped into the ED, those on the night shift just starting to hand over. 

When all of a sudden. 

An MVC was called through. 

A report of only one victim. Thankfully just one.

But it was certainly a very close call. 

A female, conscious. Barely. 

Suspected femur fracture and multiple orthopedic injuries. 

Everyone moved with practiced ease, a trait that came with far too many shifts dealing with this sort of chaos. 

Mateo found himself assigned to the incoming patient alongside Abbot.

The woman arrived pale and shaking, tears streaking down her face as EMS rolled her through the trauma bay.

Pain radiated from every movement.

One leg visibly deformed.

The possibility of additional fractures hanging over everything.

"Alright, ma'am, we're going to take care of you," Abbot’s voice was steady as always. 

The patient nodded weakly. A small cry broke out from her. 

Going through the motions as they checked everything. 

Ensuring she was stabalised. 

“Page ortho,” Abbot called out. 

Robby slipped to work alongside him, “and get Y/N in here”  

From the moment your name was called, you were hot on their heels, as you wheeled in the portable imaging unit, slipping in as you tug a set of gloves on. 

Eyes assessing, observant. 

Analytical as you pin point what was needed of you. 

Efficient as you do your job while they do theirs. 

Mateo always loved watching you work. How you moved with certainty. Confidence rolling off of you in waves. 

As the chaos began to settle ever so slightly. Mateo shuffled by your side, with a small quirk of his lips as he hummed lowly. 

But his little tune got caught in his throat when he looked up. 

Meeting the piercing eyes of your brother. 

Brows furrowed while he met Mateo’s eyes. 

You stifled the grin threatening to form on your face, biting the inside of your cheek, looking back down at the scans to hide your face. 

Brendon clicked his tongue before observing the scene before him, gloves pulled onto his hands. 

Firing off questions, straight to the point. 

Barely wasting any time. 

Before striding to stand beside you, sending Mateo a pointed look. Whilst you discreetly elbowed Brendon. 

A narrowing of your eyes as you looked at Brendon. 

He relented, ever so slightly, bending to your will. Eyes shifting to scan over the imagings. 

And that was when Mateo really saw it.

Not just the resemblance.

But the similarities between you both. 

The way both of you carried yourselves.

Your posture, the pushed back shoulders. The expressions, near identical analytical focus.

The way neither of you tolerated unnecessary nonsense once work started.

Standing side by side, nobody could have mistaken you for anything but siblings.

The same sharpness.

The same intensity.

The same tendency to cut straight to the point. The way you both behaved as though anticipating the other’s next move. 

Everyone knew of Park’s reputation. They knew of his fierce domineering presence. The way the room would silence as he entered, voices hushed when he moved through the room. 

But in this moment now. 

Mateo watched as Brendon’s demeanor shifted, almost imperceptibly. 

How his sharp edges softened. Tone not quite warm, but lacking a biting edge when speaking with you. 

Even your own behaviour morphed from your usual clean cut approach, to something a little more akin to what Mateo had seen outside of work. 

“It’ll need surgery,” Brendon commented, eyes flicking between the scans and the woman’s leg. Whilst Mateo does his best to calm her nerves. 

Stood beside Brendon, you muttered ever so quietly, “No shit, sherlock” 

He scoffed at your words.  

“That femurs halfway to another zip code,” you added. Quiet enough that it doesn’t reach the patient’s ears, but it doesn’t go amiss by Mateo. 

A small lilt of his lips holding back the chuckle from your little joke. 

An icy demeanor slipping back into place, professionalism taking over once more, as he directs the shift for them to prepare for surgery. 

As the other ready the patient for surgery, Brendon begins to exit the room before turning to Mateo, pointing at him, “You–”

Mateo points at himself with a raise of his brow. 

“–With me,” Brendon jutted his head. 

As a low hum of oohs, sound out from those nearby. 

You roll your eyes, packing up your equipment, reaching for Mateo’s hand as he passes, murmuring softly, “You’re going to be fine”

Your encouraging words do little to stifle his growing nerves, but he does his best to conceal it, while his feet carry him out of the trauma room. 

Finding Brendon standing by the elevator. 

Eyes observing him. 

Silence stagnant between them. 

His arms crossed over his chest as he simply watched Mateo, waiting. 

Mateo wouldn’t say he was easily intimidated. But right now. Standing before Brendon, Park the Shark – your older brother. 

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. 

He almost flinched when Brendon opened his mouth. 

“How serious are you?” 

Standing straighter he replied, “Very serious,” the instinct to say sir was definitely one he had to suppress. 

For a moment all Brendon did was look at him. 

Eyes narrowed. 

Lips pulled taut. 

“Good”

Brendon offered a small nod. Satisfied by what he saw. There had been many conversations between you and Brendon before this moment, and he had heard the way you softened when speaking of Mateo. 

How Mateo had made you feel so comfortable. 

How he made you feel free to be yourself. 

How you loved the way he made you feel. 

Mateo paused, blinking in surprise "...That's it?"

"No"

Of course not. Of course it wasn't. Of course there was more–

Brendon sighed, his cold resolve shifting whilst he scratches at his jaw, "Look."

His tone softened slightly. Not by much.

But just enough.

"My sister doesn't let people in."

Mateo smiled faintly, the memory of when he first met you coming to mind, "Yeah."

"You know that now."

"I do."

Brendon nodded. For a moment his gaze drifted back toward the department. Toward where you had disappeared. 

"She's always been like that,” A small smile graced his face. 

It almost felt out of place to see the man smile. The kind of look siblings got when remembering someone long before anyone else knew them.

Catching Mateo off guard. 

"Even when we were kids."

Mateo listened quietly, taking in Brendon’s words.

"If she trusts someone, it's because they've earned it,” Brendon glanced back at him, tone sincere, "And she trusts you."

That one hit harder than Mateo expected.

Because coming from you, it would've meant something. Something soft and so revealing. 

But coming from your brother–

The person who'd known you your entire life–

It somehow meant something even more profound. 

Especially when Brendon was only ever known for his blunt roughness. 

However Brendon immediately ruined the tender moment, "If you break her heart, though–" the firmness in his voice reappearing. 

As Mateo chuckled sheepishly, with a nod. “Yeah, yeah. I understand, you’ll probably break my bones”

Brendon only hummed in agreement, before disappearing into the lift. 

You slip beside Mateo, arm wrapping around his waist, while he tilts his head down to press a kiss to your temple. 

“Told you he wouldn’t kill you,” you grinned cheekily. 

He let out a small chuckle, as he pulled you closer to his side, feet moving as you begin to walk towards the lockers. 

“He did threaten to break my bones”

You scoffed, “Yeah, but he’d be the one who’d have to fix them–besides, I wouldn’t let him hurt you”

Mateo smiled softly, remarking, “Glad I’ve got one shark by my side at least”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” You roll your eyes from his words.

He nods, “I am pretty lucky”

You let your lips curl up into a smile, twisting him as your hands shift to reach around his neck, fingers twisting through the ends of his soft curls.

Reaching up to place a soft peck upon his lips before pulling away.  

“How does getting some breakfast sound?” 

“Sounds perfect” 

Leading you and Mateo to leave the ED.

Hand in hand. Your composure softens just for him. Just for Mateo. Admiring him in the early sunlight as the city awakens. 

Happy that your brother approved. 

Not that his disapproval would’ve stopped you anyway. 

Not when Mateo never failed to make you smile. 

Not when he made your heart flutter in your chest while his hand intertwined with yours. 

Not with the sweetness of his voice, or how he never failed to make you laugh. 

Pushing past your steely facade. 

And Mateo wasn’t going to be dissuaded from seeing you – even if your brother could be intimidating. 

He just wanted to be the one to make you smile. 

That was all he could ask for.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed my very first fic featuring Mateo, tried to keep it quite sweet. Also loved the idea of him knowing your relation to Brendon and still trying his luck anyway, unafraid of your brother. (I imagine it's a sweet thought for you) and these Park siblings are total softies deep down. Let me know what you thought ✨

There will be more to come for the Shiver Collection!! Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist ♥️

Next up will feature Jesse Van Horn x Reader: Just Keep Swimming

Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕 Or check out my overall Masterlist here

You can’t hear what he says. A stream of static is erupting— it’s chatter, you piece, coming from the radio attached to his plate-carrier. Darling girl, you think you can make out, You’re gonna be okay.

“Darling girl?” you parrot, letting out a wet laugh. It’s difficult to speak— let alone breathe, or move. Something thick is collecting in your lungs, drowning you from the inside out. “What is this, the forties?”

He holsters his sidearm and musters an amused smile. It’s tense, you can recognise it in the dent of his cheek: the kind he flashes his patients with when they’re rolling into the ED, nervous out of their mind and asking if they’ll be okay.

“Well, you started it,” he says, deceptively calm as he thumbs at your carotid: it’s weak. Too weak. Abbot wills away the reflexive dread from taking over him. “Besides, I’m a classic kind of guy, y’know?”

“Take me home, then,” you murmur, delirious. The world flickers like a lightbulb on the fritz. “I’m… tired.”

“No, no, hey.” He breaks through your dizzy spell. “Not yet. We haven’t even gone out on a date yet, right?”

Groggily, you can see him sling his rifle aside and dig into his vest as he keeps an eye out. “You flirting with me, Jack Abbot?”

“Have been for the past year, sweetheart,” he hums, tearing a QuikClot packet with his teeth and ducking down towards you. “‘Bout time you caught on—”

You cry out. 

A sudden bolt of lightning has rippled through you, and you catch yourself fisting at his sleeves out of blind instinct. 

Easy, easy, I know, he apologises, still packing the gushing wound as tightly and quickly as he can. 

The burst of white-hot pain has you jolting back into reality:

The street team. Routine outreach. You’d been right beside Whitaker when a thunderclap echoed through the winter air, sharp as the pop of a starting pistol. Then everybody had scattered in shrieks, and before you knew it you were looking skyward at the clouds, watching the snowflakes flutter down, down, down, to meet you.

“..itaker,” you choke, eyes bright with alarm, “Whitaker.”

“Safe,” he promises, ripping through a sterile dressing and pressing it over your bleeder. The dump of adrenaline won’t last you more than a few minutes at the rate you’re losing blood. “Hey, listen to me. Listen. EMS is coming, then we’ll get you to PTMC.”

You can hardly hear him through the battledrum in your ears and the firefight taking place only a street away from you. Gang-violence, you realise. That’s why Abbot is here with the SWAT team in full gear.

You’re gonna be fine, y’hear me?

“I’m bleeding out,” you slur, finally looking down at your torn scrubs, where Abbot’s gloved, red hands are coming away sticky; drenched up to the seams of his camo with cruor that’s too dark and too much and—

You remember now. You had taken a round straight through the gut.

What is it he told you, once?

Nipples to navel is no man’s land.

“Oh god,” you shiver, feeling your breath give way as the reality set in, “I’ve been bleeding out. That’s why you’ve— that’s why you’re being so sweet. I’m dy—”

“No one is dying,” Abbot cuts to the quick, chasing to meet your drowsy gaze. His voice is a low, fetching timbre. “Hey, hey. Look at me. That’s it. How does dinner sound?”

What? you say. Atleast you think you do.

He reaches up to touch your cheek, but hovers over the thin of it instead when he realises how bloody his palms are. 

“Dinner. At a restaurant.” He spares a glance past the corner to where his unit has begun closing back in. “Somewhere classy, so we can dance, yeah?”

Gossamer. Periphery vignetting. 

Okay, you agree. I’ll wear my finest.

The world tips like a cradle into a gaussian blur. 

“…eetheart. Hey. Hey!” 

You blink. Suck in a pained breath.

“Don’t close your eyes,” Abbot reminds, jostling you with a start. “You gotta stay awake, okay?”

Had you closed them? You didn’t notice. All you can tell are sirens blaring closer, and you imagine the ambulance, skidding in somewhere off in the distance.

“I can’t dance,” you admit, taking whatever precious time you have left to look at him; to carve into your memory the profile of his face, the colour of his eyes and the dimple whenever he speaks.

( Abbot looks different like this. Battle-worn and stalwart. But the light breaking through the snow behind him is casting a silver halo over his head, softening his rough edges. He looks like—

Like an avenging angel; armed to the teeth with nothing but gunpowder bullets and his healing hands. )

“Me neither,” Abbot soothes. “Just, just stay with me, can you do that?”

“Okay,” you say. “Okay. I will.”

Attagirl.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ He doesn’t shake. He never allows himself to do so in times like these— it’s what had made him a good combat medic. Clarity in crises. 

He doesn’t shake. Not when he’s forced to switch out between his medkit and his sidearm to return fire until Hiro had him covered; Not even when he’s forced to collar you a little further into safety, and it slashes a terrible, sickening dragpath of your blood across the glittering snow.

“You’ll be alright,” he’s saying. Ordering. It’s half for him and half for you. The firefight had long since passed and been handled, and he has you safe in his arms. The whole ordeal since he’d slid over to your side and carried you off had only been five minutes at best. 

“I got you. I got you.”

When EMS hauls you both in and tears away, he doesn’t shake. 

When they hook you up to drugs and bag you, he doesn’t shake then either. 

Abbot might’ve even been mistaken for the calmest of the entire EMS crew as they wheeled you into the PTMC’s ambulance bay, where everyone’s already been prepped and waiting for your arrival. 

Lateral transfer is smooth. They whisk you into Trauma-1. 

Abbot gives a rundown of the situation; of mechanism of injury. He reports when and lists what’s been administered en-route to the trauma centre, and asserts that you “…won’t be stable for long, not unless we do something about her bloodloss and collapsed lu—” 

Something blares from the monitors.

Jack’s heart seizes.

He reckons your vitals in a blink. O² is dropping, Jesse declares, and the bay runs more amok as other numbers begin to tank into catastrophe. You’re crashing. He has to move. He has to do something. He’s a doctor. He—

—grabs your limp hand; Feels your radial pulse deteriorating, thready with little life.

“You’re cold,” he announces, uselessly. It subsides into a whisper of “No,” and “Sweetheart,” and “Didn’t you say you’ll stay with me?” 

Robby’s gaze snaps to Jack.

In a flash, someone is rushed in and is prying his fingers apart from you. 

It takes Jack a moment of stubborn resistance to realise it’s Dana, tugging him aside. 

“Listen to me. We gotta let ‘em work,” she avers. “Why don’t we patch you up too? Robby is on the case. He knows what he’s doin’, you know that.”

Robby. Right. Robby is a good doctor. An excellent doctor. He’s competent; not shaking— When did Jack start shaking? He never does. 

…Not until now. Not until you. 

( No amount of combat could’ve prepared him for this. No field manual ever said anything about witnessing your proverbial heart bleeding out in your arms, while you lie to their face that they would be fine. You just have to stay awake. Stay with— )

Like a good soldier, he has enough sense to let himself be led out and away from the fray despite his instincts clawing against it. But, “I’m not letting her out of my sight,” he says. 

He’s shocked to find his voice fraught with desperation. 

“Dana,” he startles. It’s his adrenaline, crashing. “Dana, I— I can’t— I can’t let her out of my sight—”

Something in her fractures along with the crack of his wavering voice.

“I know. I know, Jack. It’s alright,” she overrides in a hush, and like the clever woman she is, reasons with: “Look here. We can watch her from the Nurses station. How ‘bout we park you there, and you can keep an eye on her while we stitch your shoulder up. No rooms or beds, I promise. Sound like a plan?”

Yes. Good. Okay, he moves, since words are betraying him. There’s a ball in his throat he’s not sure how long he’s been swallowing down, and there’s a burn licking up the back of his eyes. He hadn’t even noticed he was clipped until it was mentioned.

Dana peels his gloves off. They’re slippery with your blood. She’s regarding him with that same, gentle look she spares for her most doleful patients. Then, once more like the clever woman she is, distracts his mind by turning its wheels as Perlah makes quick work of the wound on his shoulder: 

She tells him that his SWAT team is safe and his unit is right behind him, ETA-5; that the rest of the hospital street team had made it out safely and were being treated too for minor injuries. That the men— gangsters— responsible for this whole shitshow in the first place are being apprehended as they speak. 

Jack is grateful for her, in spite of however much of what she’s said almost certainly coming through one ear and out the other. It’s kept him, successfully, from spiralling into an anxiety attack.

He bristles, paces, hovers impatiently, until his adrenaline grinds to a stop. When they finally stabilise you and sweep you upstairs for emergency surgery, he tails you, helpless, where Walsh ends up having to step between him and the threshold of the doors leading towards the OR. 

Abbot doesn’t argue.

Just stands outside at attention again until an hour— maybe several, he couldn’t tell anymore— had passed; and Dr. Shen must have come in already for the nightshift, because Robby is here now by his side to tell him the procedures he’d done on you in the trauma bay, and is pleading him to Stop doing guard duty, Jack. Stand down. It’s alright. The fight is over.

“Is it?” he cuts. You’re fighting for your life on a table right now, he can’t bring himself to say. And I never got to tell you that I—

“Robby,” he resigns, after a long while, “I won’t survive this.” 

He had been picturing everyone he’s ever had taken from him since your gurney disappeared out of sight. 

There’s Afghanistan— Curly and Vega and Yeti during Kandahar; Pope and Genie and Milo during Helmand— who he’s lost to the dogs of war. There’s his deceased MVC vet Raymond Orser who he coded for two hours straight to no avail, and there’s the ghastly weight of his wedding ring from when he lost his wife, and jesus fucking christ now he’s going to be losing you next, and—

Robby squeezes his good shoulder.

“I can’t. Not again,” Jack confesses. “I won’t survive it.”

It.

“She’ll pull through,” Robby insists, because there’s nothing more defiant than saying that at the face of Death; and lets his dearest friend cry at long last, lets him lean into him for a settling embrace. 

The day’s events have caught up with them: they were anguished, and exhausted. 

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ You wake up with the sun, an induced coma later.

Blearily, you make out what can reasonably be a rainbow of cards— is that a balloon?— and fresh flowers clogging your bedside, poking between the beeping medical paraphernalia that’s pumping drugs through countless lines. It feels like being a puppet with tangled strings.

You vaguely recall this isn’t the first time you may have been conscious as you recovered, but the first time fully awake and oriented. 

There’s the ghostly warmth of a hand clasping yours you can still feel, after all, and the memory of muffled murmurs around you as you were sleeping.

Despite being sluggish, though, you manage the call button once you’ve gathered enough strength. A nurse materialises into your room, who briefly catches you up until your ICU doctor arrives with surgical consult: It’s Garcia, looking unimpressed with her pager pointed accusingly at you.

“You bitch,” she bites, without heat. “You scared the shit out of all of us the past week, y’know that?”

You make a face as you sip your cup of water. “Oof. Oh god. Don’t make me laugh.”

Then, not a split-second later:

“Oh, hello there,” you greet, to the Saint stunned at the door—

—And Abbot has to physically steady himself, out of the sheer overwhelming relief in his marrows. 

“Soldier boy,” you finally call out. Your radiant smile, weak as it is, still washes over him like pure, incandescent sunlight. 

“Oh,” Dana smiles. It’s the fond kind. Facing a timestamp of an old haunt that she’s weathered, come to rue, come to remember. 

She reads the syllables of your name out casually. 

Some of the staff in the vicinity don’t openly turn, but Emma can somehow physically feel their ears perk to the sound of your name. A reflex; as if you’re still here, and they’re expecting to see you step back through the doors.

“One of our finest, best and brightest,” she continues, laying a hand on her shoulder with a squeeze. Emma recognises the gesture: more a desperate reach for comfort— for Dana to ground and anchor herself than it is for her: a fresh-faced student nurse who’s only encountered a handful of names to remember.

“Y’would’ve loved ‘em,” Dana nudges, in a bid to lighten the mood. “Was a hell of an easy thing to do.”

Emma’s reply is a gracious, sincere thing. Punctuated with a gentle smile. “I wish I could’ve met them.”

“Yeah?” hums Dana, after a shaky moment's pass. Her voice is thin. “Me too, kid.”

ii. — THANK YOU.

“Alright, uh. Group huddle,” Dr. Shen sighs, to the band of tenderfoot MS under his care. Tensions are high. They’re arguing between themselves in an undertone on what could have or could have been done for their now-deceased patient. 

“A close friend of mine once asked me,” Shen begins to address once they settled, “What do you think is the worst possible thing that can happen to you?”

Ellis glances curiously at him. Wonders where he’s going with this. She answers first, anyway, if only to have his back; start the ball rolling: “Paralysis,” she answers.

Amputation, shudders an MS2. Blindness, goes the next. And then on, and on with varying levels of grimaces and winces: Dementia. Sickle cell. Locked-in Syndrome. 

“See?” Shen cuts in, at last. “Everything you all have listed has a thread of torture in it. Pain. Suffering. Little to no hope for recovery. But not one of you said death, did you?” 

Something clicks in place in the MS students’ heads: Quality of life. That death, on rare medical occasions like their previous case, might be seen as a kindness. 

“Alright, spill,” Ellis snorts, when everyone had eventually scattered back to their own patients. “Who do we have to thank for that fire mentoring story you just pulled in there?”

John, for the first time in a long while, has something uncharacteristic in his usually-deadpan expression: Grief.

When he voices your name, it hangs in the air long enough for Ellis to feel something startle in her heart— 

How after all this time, she’s still learning plenty from and about you.

iii. — I FORGIVE YOU.

“You said the anger comes and goes?”

In the quiet of his therapist’s office, Abbot distracts himself with the ticking of the wall clock. Crosses and uncrosses his arms; fidgets with his wedding ring.

“Ever since Admin cleared out their locker, yeah,” he says, instinctively beset by the memory. “Or when I look at a chart and see their name on it like they’re still here. Or when one of the newer juniors sit on their chair, even though it’s— it’s no one’s chair.”

“You’re not angry at Admin, or the Med-students,” his therapist lays bare, carefully. “And I think you’re aware of that.” 

He purses his lips out of frustration, leans back into the sofa to gather himself. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I shouldn’t, I can’t—” He runs a hand down his face. “I can’t be angry at— the victim. They don’t deserve that.”

“Why not?” comes the odd challenge, slowing Abbot down considerably. “You deserve it, too: to feel a certain way about what happened.” 

“Yeah, but, not— Not anger. Anger implies a wrongdoing,” he explains, shaking his head in disagreement. “And I don’t blame them for what they did. That’s different.”

“How so?”

“Because!” he bites, in an outrage, “When someone wrongs you, it means you face a choice to—”

Abbot stops himself short. Shame and disgust curls in his heart. There it is: the pulsepoint of the problem. 

“Forgive them,” his therapist finishes, for him. “You have to forgive them, Jack. For your sake. Whether or not it feels incredibly selfish of you to be angry or disappointed— And even if there’s nothing, really, to even forgive.”

iv. — PLEASE FORGIVE ME.

It’s Dr. McKay, befittingly, who manages to get through to one of her patients, and convinces them to speak with Kiara for a discussion on PTMC’s number of therapy programmes.

Robby is proud. He makes sure to go out of his way to tell her this, briefly but sincerely; that she’d done a phenomenal thing, before pointedly ignoring the discerning look she’d given him when she caught the tail-end of his anguished gaze as he excused himself for a breather.

The rooftop door creaks when he swings it open. The guardrail is empty, and the parapet is reflecting the golden hour of a sunset. 

Robby indulges himself, for a moment, to think about a Universe where he stumbles into you still up here. Closes his eyes and childishly allows an imagination of him standing next to you, speaking to you. Perhaps a second chance, or one last conversation at the very least—

But he tells himself he doesn’t deserve it. 

What good of a mentor is he if his own junior had slipped through the cracks? He ought to have noticed the signs, hadn’t he? It’s his duty. The responsibility, above all else, lies on Robby’s shoulders. It’s what he signed up for when he took the role, didn’t he? 

And he’d failed.

This burden is his; an eternal cross to bear.

Your death; your blood metaphorically staining his hands.

He’d failed you. Just like he’d failed Adamson; failed Leah, and Jake, and Frank and everyone who’s ever—

In Robby’s mind, he entertains the idea of a final conversation with you; and he never gets to say all that he wants to say, because he always finds something more to want to tell you. It ends the same way in each and every one of them:

A bow of his head to guiltily say, I’m so, so, sorry.

n. — STAY.

Do not hang your stethoscope at the rooftop guardrail tonight. 

It is not yet time for farewells.

You’ll miss Donnie’s upcoming babyshower, and Javadi’s birthday party celebration. Matteo embarrasses himself somehow during it, but he’ll wish, regardless, that you’d have been there to see it. 

You’ll miss out on hitting the jackpot on the latest bet Ahmad had on the roster, which means Jesse will finally beat your record and be ahead of the winning-streak. A Pyrrhic victory, ofcourse— he wishes he never won this way.

You’ll miss the latest goss Princess and Perlah have on that one EMS crew girl constantly trying to sneak a look at Langdon a.k.a ER-Ken— who, speaking of, will be quietly wondering where you’ve gone once he’s back from rehab; the same way Collins will find out should she ever drop by again.

You’ll miss the domesticity of Samira’s texts and calls and links to medical journals she finds interesting; miss Whitaker’s random pictures of farm animals sent every off-day he has; miss Santos’ late night trash talking over life in general; miss Mel’s ramblings and childhood stories of her sister.

McKay will wish her son could have known you in the same way Dana wishes Emma could have met you earlier. John will get your drink order every once in a while whenever he misses you despite disliking the taste, and Ellis will mistakenly glimpse your face moving amidst the havoc of a trauma case more times than she can count.

And Abbot and Robby will carry another face in their memory; another tally in their heart: They will miss you every time they see you in each junior that they come to mentor, and they will miss you when they both stand at the rooftop together on the darker days.

All this to say:

You’ll miss out on plenty if you take that step beyond. 

The expression “taking your own life” speaks for itself. Who are you taking it from? This life you have has never wholly been your own; it’s shared. An impact— say a dent, or the black hole of an absence— will be felt in the little Universe you’ve come to build and share as home with friends, family, loved ones.

I promise you they will look for you whenever that dent resurfaces, or that black hole reappears. 

So just stay for this night and the next, and the next. 

One day at a time.

It is not a time for farewells.

Do not hang your stethoscope at the rooftop guardrail tonight.

“Sure, why the hell not,” you relent, holding the handset loose at your ear. It’s a crazy idea, yes, though fortunately isn’t a stupid one. “But that’ll risk exsanguination. I’m paging for a consult. Walsh has a better eye on this anyw—”

Something clicks; the line goes dead. 

You blink in confusion to see:

Abbot, with his fingers pressed down the receiver. 

He’s braced himself against it, the flex of his freckled arm outstretched as he proceeds to lean down towards you to meet your affronted glare, voice low as he closes in on you. 

“I’ll do it,” he croons.

You reason the stumble in your heart as a startle reflex. Shake your head back in focus.

“Am I running this, Dr. Abbot, or are you?”

“You are. But you’re also uselessly running the standard of care, so I’m inclined to override,” he censures. “Like Ellis said: Surgery is tied up with people who have minutes to live. I can buy our MasterChef here an extra golden hour if we restore perfusion.”

“And trust me of all people when I say I wanna save this guy’s leg,” he continues. “Hell, might even buy enough time for Walsh to stop by the vending machine before your little consult.”

You let the dig pass and the amputee joke go unnoticed. “That knife is the only thing tamponading him from a call lighting up the blood bank, cowboy.”

“You’re right. So call them to standby MTP,” he agrees surprisingly easily, releasing the receiver and— much to your chagrin— begins to dial their extension for you; and all while still confidently, deliberately, holding your frustrated gaze for maximum tension.

The call goes through. You muffle the handset on your shoulder as you narrow at him.

“A vascular shunt is a surgical procedure, Dr. Abbot, temporary or not.”

He shrugs, shooting that cocked-head-and-deadpan-stare he always does that makes you want to wipe out of his face. “So put the word emergency in front of it.”

You scowl. Rear your head back and break away from his eye-contact in metaphorical defeat. 

Jerk, you mouth, just before you begin rattling off the case to the line.

Punk, he murmurs back, finally pulling away from your personal space to glove up. “Gowns up everybody,” he announces. “Get the med-students in, Ellis, they’re gonna wanna see this.”

You hang the landline up at last. “Just so you know, I called the morgue too while we’re at it,” you joke, dryly.

Abbot snorts dismissively. “Ye of little faith. I’ve done this a hundred times in field hospitals. Trust me, punchy.”

“Oh, the morgue’s not for the patient,” you say, sidling past him as Princess ties the back of your PPE gown. “It’s for when I’m done beating you with your own leg for undercutting me in my trauma case.”

“Yeah?” Abbot narrows, his half-hearted smile flashing canine-sharp. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.” 

So it goes. 

The dynamic between you has always been a pointed, inflammatory thing; be it in disagreements over patient treatment (“Aw, relax, punchy. It’ll be my head on the inevitable Gloria-guillotine, not yours. Who knew you cared about me that much—?”) or bickering over things as small as accidentally drinking someone else’s coffee order (“Yes, ‘Jerk’ written on it means it’s your drink— who else do you think the drawn-on one-legged stickman is supposed to be?”). 

For frequent flyers and medical staff, the friction eventually settles into background noise: a familiar cadence of clipped exchanges, cheap jabs and catty banter threaded into the humdrum tapestry of rolling carts and beeping monitors. A daily occurrence enough that, if neither of you lock horns or go after each other’s throats, would sow a discordance into the Pitt’s rhythm more than they’d realise.

Not that it ever intervenes with patient care, ofcourse. 

The both of you may conflict or fall into disparaging hisses and crows at each other, but you two are still the professional duo for when the calls come in and and traumas start thundering down the bay (The PittFest MCI had not only sharpened your respect for one another since, but also strengthened your trust in each other’s inner compass and capabilities— Not that you’d ever admit that to each other.):

You can contradict each other without the cruelty when absolutely necessary; can quarrel while intubating flawlessly; can hand him the ten-blade intuitively while deep mid-argument. But when a patient threatens to get combative with you, Abbot is first to step in and intervene; And when a visitor or family member thinks to browbeat him, you’re first to jump to his defense.

A symbiotic relationship; Part of the natural order in the department, however jagged it appears to outsiders. 

(Ahmad already has a betting pool up for who’ll bend or break first. Half the staff already sees the hostile dynamic as something intimate and borderline romantic, after all, so why not profit? “$40 says those two are secretly exes.”)

And so it carries on, and on, and on. 

Until—

“Keeping up, punk?” Abbot says offhand, yanking the bougie out an emergency cric.

The room perks their ears for the snap, the bite, the caustic remark. Your unimpressed tone that’d have clapped back against him in an instant with something along the lines of, You’re the one with the limp in your step, jerk.

But it never comes. Just Perlah’s relieved declaration of a yellow end-tidal.

The entire bay’s anticipated gaze pins you down in surprise.

“What do you think?” you simply reply. It’s a lazy retort— uncreative. Flat. As if you’d been drained of the energy you usually have to take the bait and turn it against him. 

The nurses glance curiously at one another in silent conversation. 

From where he’s standing by the patient, Abbot cocks his head ever so slightly, taken aback. Even tries to chase your gaze when it’s pulled away towards Lena, who’s popped her head into the room to inveigle you: one of your patient’s visitors wanted to speak with you, it seems.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Abbot calls out as a last ditch effort, unable to hide the quiet dismay in his voice as he tries to tease you with, “You haven’t even called me Jack-ass in the past hour. You must be feeling generous today.”

You take a deep breath and smile at him as you back out the trauma door. It’s tight; performative. A poor attempt to lighten the mood.

“I guess I am, huh?” you shrug, and disappear round the corner.

Abbot blinks. Tries to wrap his head around the entire exchange; think back on whenever he’d pushed a button he shouldn’t have and made you stonewall him— But nothing comes up. 

The ordeal bothers him the rest of the shift. 

…And then the next.

And the next.

And the— 

There grows, for lack of a better word, a newfound peace within the Emergency Department. 

Ironically, it’s the most unpeaceful the place has ever felt, too.

Contesting between you both have now slowed to a crawl. Habitual head-butting in regards to dosages, imaging, consults, or whatever else, thins out. Childish arguments with him eventually shorten, tempering out into mild retaliations and half-baked barbs, where Abbot’s compromises are miraculously met without the usual amount of needling and bickering from your end.

Nothing has grinded to a halt completely, no, but the thrum of life in the air has gone. A notable absence.

It unsettles everyone.

It unsettles Abbot, most. 

Knocks him off-kilter; spikes a dread in his heart. He’d chalked the initial shift in you off as fatigue, went out of his way to deliberately get a rise out of you (“You’re slipping, punchy.”) only to receive in return a half-hearted scoff that only carved the concern deeper into his marrows— makes him want to grab at you and rattle you back awake.

Is it me? Did I say or do something? Have I crossed a line?

It isn’t. He knows it. A basal part of his soul that has come to entwine itself into your own, after all this time, knows instinctively that it isn’t his fault.

There’s the way your jaw tightens whenever your phone buzzes from a notification, after all, and the too-carefully-arranged composure you carry in your calm demeanor after you answer your phone calls outside mid-shift.

It’s an external thing, he pieces. Personal. 

Something Abbot isn’t allowed to be privy to, and won’t yet be anytime soon, it seems.

He just wishes you’d talk to him.

A black cloud hangs in the ED today.

“Rhythm check, hold compressions,” you say, not even bothering with looking at the monitor.

The EKG sings like a clarion.

Asystole.

“…Call it,” you order aloud at last.

05:47AM, Ellis declares, warily. She had honestly expected less give from you. (Earlier in one of your previous patients, you’d flashed your teeth against Shen in defiance on the mere suggestion of calling time of death— it hadn’t felt like your usual bites. It had felt unreasonably, uncharacteristically personal.

Now, though, you just seem to deflate. 

She doesn’t know which to be more afraid of.)

It’s been a shitty nightshift for everyone. You in particular, having lost your third patient in a row. You’re beginning to crack in front of everybody’s eyes: hairline fractures, in that your quips are meaner now; words blindly callous, derision more intentional. 

Worst of all, Abbot isn’t in today to soften your blows and weather your pain with you.

The monitor continues to whine.

Asystole. 

A flat and dull sound that somehow slices through your head akin to a rusted, serrated edge grating into your eardrums. Eternal tinnitus. A crooked blade cleaving your heart— your soul— unevenly; brutally.

Signifies a harrowing death knell that peals and tails you like a banshee’s cry through every failed patient, every family member’s tearful goodbye. An incessant, painful, beep that goes on and on and on and on and—

“Will someone turn that fuc— the damn monitor off, please?”

A tense beat passes as eyes flicker across the bay.

Jesse, closest to the EKG, blinks owlishly at you. 

“It’s already off, Doc,” he awkwardly says.

Oh, you realise. It is.

The ringing is in your head. Has been. It’s been following you down all the way from the Oncology patient wards since weeks ago, and been echoing like a swan song inside the hollow of your ears and into your skull until now. 

“I’m—” Sorry, you don’t get to finish. 

Lena has barged into the door. Got a call for an MVC. Two traumas incoming ETA-5. We gotta clear this place, hon’.

So you do.

Everyone jumps into swift action. Your deceased patient is whisked off to be cleaned and put in the viewing room. The bay is sanitised, prepped and reset thanks to housekeeping and techs. In no time two gurneys barrel in, and the picture EMS paints for everybody is automatically clear to the room: 13-year-old victim, 19-year-old drunk driver.

You swallow it down and get the job done. 

As Senior Attending you’re bouncing between the connected bays, pulling all the stops to save a life; shooting medical orders and guiding the Residents’ hands where you can. 

MTP is dialed in for the 13-year-old girl in Trauma-2. It doesn’t look good. You try anyway.

In Trauma-1, OR has been called down to assist with the 19-year-old patient. Walsh materialises in a moment’s notice, and the next time you’re checking in on her she’s gone elbows deep in guts with her team in an emergency thoracotomy. 

His vitals, however ugly, look promising. 

They wheel him upstairs as soon as he’s somewhat stabilised. You tell his family that’s been pacing outside the bay for the last fifteen minutes on what the update might be; what to and what not to expect, that Your son was in severe condition from the accident, and right now they’re in the best hands possi—

“She’s crashing!” 

You fly into Trauma-2. Reckon the vitals in a flash. Bradying. BP tanking. It doesn’t take much to tell she’s decompensating.

Shen is on chest compressions with Ellis on standby before you even feel the carotid disappear beneath your fingertips. An MS4 is on airway. Nurses declare labs and run transfusions. Jesse hangs up the cell-saver, and another unit of blood and FFP at your behest. And then another unit. And another. 

He doesn’t argue with you. No one will argue when it comes to saving the life of a 13-year-old girl.

PEA, resume compressions…

…Rhythm check, pause compressions.

Asystole, resume compressio—

You spend the better half of the hour coding her. 

Outside, her parents and brother weep into each other’s arms. It takes everything in you not to hurl at the idea of calling them into the room for their goodbyes, the adrenaline running through your veins in a sick and twisted fight-flight-freeze. 

It’s part of the job. You do it anyway. 

You listen to them scream, and shout. You listen to the EKG monitor— no, the ringing in your head, because Jesse’s cut the sound for everybody since you called it— and listen to them beg and plead and wail for my babygirl, my twin sister, my darling, why can’t you save her? Isn’t that what you do?

You let them berate and abuse you. Let them hurl curses and crucify you. They shriek and claw at your scrubs to get the fuck out, and in a blind glimmer of hope you mistake the figure stepping between you two to be Abbot— but it’s merely security breezing in. 

I’ll go, you tell Ahmad. Let them stay. 

Dr. Shen shoots you an apologetic look, and takes over the case. Even he, stalwart and unflappable, is rattled by the grisly scene.

“Christ, hon’,” you hear Lena wince once you’ve backed out the trauma bay, “Your face—”

“Just a minor scratch,” you dismiss, waving her away and mumbling something along the lines of, Courtesy of mom there. But it’s alright. I’ll… clean up. Call me if you need me— I just, I just need to get some air, okay? 

You can’t recognise your voice. 

You haven’t been able to for weeks, really, since the last time you sat at the bedside holding a cold hand in the Oncology ward. 

Haven’t been the same when you first heard the diagnosis, infact; up until you listened to the final, agonal breaths; up until the nurse had shut the monitor off when the flatline had come and rung its way like a harrowing tocsin into your head that’ll follow you for the rest of your life.

Haunting you in increments: Across the weeks from the ward, to the Sunday funeral, to the patients you’ve lost, to your fourth patient in a row today, and further on now—

Echoing up, up and up the stairwell towards the roof. 

A low-grade droll in the back of your mind that you can’t shake, can’t palm your buzzing ears over. It hums like a Call of the Void when you peer over the edge of the rooftop, and take an inhale of fresh air deep enough it stings your lungs.

It’s a beautiful morning. 

The sun isn’t out yet, but it still is a sight. In the dark horizon, distant God-rays threaten to slip through the gaps between soft clouds and wake the sleepiness of Pittsburgh. 

You stagger. Shift your weight from foot to foot. Let the burn at the back of your eyes creep its way into tears that blur your vision into a bokeh effect over the cityline. 

When you stuff your hands into your pockets as you consider it, you skirt at the idea of allowing your shoes to toe further past another foot— to take that damning step onto the metal parapet edged around the roof.

Asystole.

Still, nothing can cut through that palpable sound of a flatline in your skull. 

Nothing. 

It continues to drawl its Siren song; like Death itself is seeking you out, unhinging its jaw into the gaping maw beyond that’s only one step away.

Asystole. 

Nothing cuts through the blaring sound of Death’s croons. It’s deafening.

Asystole.

Nothing will help. Nothing and noone—

The door creaks.

“Hey, punchy,” comes a familiar voice.

You’re surprised to find the world clears into silence for the first time today.

✆ …the number you have dialed is currently unavailable… ✆ …the number you have diale‎d is currently unavailable… ‎‎[…] 6:32 | U ok? Pick up 6:33 | Would u atleast leave me on read  6:33 | So i know ure okay?

“Hey, punchy,” says the voice, sliding his cellphone into his jeans. “Little rude of you not to pick up my calls, don’t you think?”

Behind you, you can hear the creak of the rooftop door swing shut; the nigh-imperceptible tap of shoes on concrete approaching. If he hadn’t spoken at all, you would’ve recognised Jack Abbot by gait alone regardless.

“What’re you doing here?” you say, trying for scorn. It comes off as a choke instead— there’s still that ball in your throat from the grief you’re battling inside out, even if the phantom alarm in your head has seized now that he’s here.

“Oh, you know,” Abbot shrugs. “I missed you.” 

He turns to narrow his sight at the short step-up away you are from the ledge. The stethoscope— your proverbial yoke around your neck, ironic as the situation is— is now hanging listlessly on the guardrail like a bid farewell. 

Abbot has to tamp the dread in his heart, the hammering against his ribcage.

“Sure,” you hum, unfazed by his attempt to jest. A presence looms by you: it’s him, leaning on the guardrail. You can feel his classic gaze burning through the profile of your face like a brand on your skin. Can imagine the gentle look he’d give you in your mind's eye.

“I do miss you,” Abbot repeats, and you can hear the sincere honesty in his murmuring voice. “We all have.”

Then, carefully: “What happened tonight?”

That lets out a genuine huff of laughter from you. A half-hearted, bewildered sound. Where do you begin, from the Oncology ward? From the funeral? From everything at work that led up to today? 

“Life happened,” you summarise wryly, shaking your head. “Let’s see… 26-year-old fresh graduate who stroked out after an overdose in a party. Then Ruth— our frequent flyer— seized her heart out into arrest. Didn’t make it into the ambulance bay, EMS pronounced her dead.”

“No time to grieve her though,” you say, breath skittering. “No, no. 29-year-old officer with a GSW through the neck rolls in. Neuro barely stepped into the room before he started tanking. Took me long enough before I had to call it. Can’t heal a cervical fracture, anyway, can we?”

Your joke is raw and bitten out. Something in Abbot splinters at the sight of you like this— unraveling at the seams, lips curled and cheeks bitten from the inside to stop a sob from escaping.

“Had a MVC after that, too,” you continue. And this must be it, Abbot thinks— the tipping point that had sent you over the metaphorical edge; that had made you want to follow it by climbing your way to the roof— because your voice is barely hanging on by a thread now, shaking with effort. 

“13-year-old girl who snuck out to have icecream with her twin brother meets 19-year-old drunk driver who took his dad’s car for a late night joyride.”

Abbot openly grimaces. The horror of being a Doctor, sometimes, is that it’s far easier to imagine the scene already: Abbot figures the orders he’d have given, the calls he’d have made, the drugs to be pushed into lines— even if you give him little to no detail.

“She pushed her brother out the way. Coded her for an hour, maybe. Had to look at her family in the eye and tell them that their, their little girl is—” 

You grit your teeth. Whip your face leftwards, so he can’t spot the tears that’s running freely down your cheeks.

“Oh, but don’t worry, Jack. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel, see? I managed to crack the chest and save the life of the 19-year-old who murdered their daughter,” you wave, in mock-dismissal. “Because that’s the job isn’t it? The Hippocratic Oath we solemnly swore to. So there’s that.”

…I will apply, for the benefit of the sick, all measures that are required—

A painful beat passes.

You exhale, hard, when you hear Abbot’s clothes rustling: he’s ducked under the rail to come stand beside you now. 

He gathers what to say in his head just as a frigid breeze passes, carrying away the tiny tremble of words you’d very suddenly, quietly spoken.

And I lost someone close to me to cancer.

“…What?” he startles, before the words could fully hit him.

Then it clicks perfectly into place: the buzz of notifications in your phone then, the long calls mid-shift that wore you out, the slow descent of your hope that had eaten away at you as you braced to face the inevitable end.

“I’m sorry,” he corrects himself, instantly. “I know what that’s like,” he adds, which, well—

It snatches a vicious, incredulous laugh from you. It’s unreasonable and disproportionate of a reaction, but you couldn’t help but go for the jugular and lash out at him. 

“How could you possibly—? You don’t understand a thing, Jack,” you begin, turning to face him now.

(There’s an agitated mark on your face he zeros on. Has half the mind to reach out to run his finger over the thin, clotted line. Holds the reflex to ask, How did you get that? Who hurt you?)

“I do,” he says. “I do understand.”

He tries to set a comforting hand on your shoulder, but you’re snarling.

“No,” you wrench from his grip, voice cracking from grief. “You have no idea what it’s like. You don’t know a damn—”

“I do know,” he overrides steadily, which pisses you off because he’s so incredibly fucking patient with you still, despite how much of an asshole you’ve been this enti—

You stop.

Blink.

His words hang for a moment. A shudder washes over. 

“…You do, don’t you?” comes your realisation.

You remember now. He’d lost his wife to cancer too, once upon a time.

“Yeah,” he says, resolutely. A voice of someone who’s weathered the worst. “I do.”

The fight leaves your body.

A wretched exhale escapes you, and before you know it you’re finally burying your face into your hands as you stumble back to the railing, crumbling apart.

This is how it is in this field, isn’t it? You work and see the worst long enough you start forgetting it might happen to you next. Too complacent. Too busy with saving people’s lives to think about your own. Your own circle; own circumstance. Then the blow comes, and the wind is knocked right out your lungs, swept right off your sails. 

You get the rug pulled from right under your feet and you’re brutally reminded just how insignificant life is when Death points its merciless finger to its next victim— whether young or old or saint or sinner.

“Jack,” you hiccup at long last. “I’m so fucking tired.”

It’s the brittlest Abbot has ever heard or seen you. 

He never wants to hear it again.

“You must be,” he relents, softly, and reaches to fold you into his arms. “C’mere.”

And you do. 

That, he supposes, is what undoes him.

Neither reflexive resistance nor censure. You just step forward to him like he’s a beacon of light amidst the mire of tonight’s atrocities, and let him pull you safely close as you choke back tears.

An embrace is unexpected considering your dynamic. But it’s a quiet surrender that feels neither unceremonious nor graceless. This closeness that both of you have always disguised as petty combat isn’t unwelcome— has never been, come to think of it. If anything it’d felt like you belonged, like a slotting piece of a puzzle, perfectly fit in the shelter of his arms.

I’m sorry, you sniffle, for all of it. 

You’re not sure for what exactly, or why it felt right to apologise, but it slips out from you anyway as you fist at his jacket and curl into the warmth of him; press your ear to the constant of his heartbeat in a bid to anchor yourself someway, somehow between your spiralling.

He tightens his hold without thinking when you bury your face into his neck. Feels the tremor of your shoulders. Listening to your hitches, your stumble of breath as you try to contain your crying into something discreet. 

“Yeah,” Abbot offers, inadequate as it is. “I know.”

He’s settled a hand at your nape, threaded his fingers into your hair. The other has wrapped firmly around the small of your back; a plinth. Steady, firm. A physical pillar to keep you from unravelling.

This high upon the rooftop, the wind cuts sharper, so he angles himself just enough that you’re shielded from most of it. Then Abbot simply keeps you close, chin resting lightly against the crown of your head, and waits. 

(He can wait. Will wait, for however long it takes.) 

He’s never been one for words or a speech, anyway. He prefers contact; prefers the comfort a touch could translate.

By and by, the city rouses from its daze and begins its waking routine of distant sirens and bustling traffic. Sunlight begins to reflect and cast a saffron glow across the skyline. When you finally sniffle, finally shift away from his space to look up at him past your wet lashes, your eyes are red-rimmed.

Abbot dashes a stray tear before it falls, then courteously lets his arms drop. 

“Morning,” he greets humorously, hoping for a reaction. (His voice is drowned, it feels like, in affection.) 

Under the daylight, you look younger like this. Smaller. The bone deep exhaustion that’s hollowed you out is clearer to see in the open air. You look— diminished.

(Pretty, still. Beautiful. In the way Abbot has always found you to be and only ever admitted by hiding it behind snarky remarks. Your sharp-wittedness has given way for a rare softness in your edges now, looking the most unguarded he’s ever seen you. It makes him itch to tuck you safely back in his arms.)

“Robby’s morning shift,” you say, looking at Abbot’s clothes: sleeved jacket over a black tee and jeans. “You came all this way on an off day.”

Tonight had been a watershed moment, you realise, between the two of you. The intimacy of falling apart in another’s hands; the disarmament of your armour, heart and soul vulnerably bared out for him.

And he’d held it— you— as gently as he could.

He shakes his head before you can continue. “S’fine, punchy.” 

“Lena snitched?” you guess.

“John,” he corrects, and does his signature duck where he chases to meet your exasperated, downturned gaze. “What? I’m serious. He called me. Afraid. Can you believe that? I actually thought Hell froze over.”

“Today is a first for everything, I guess,” you hum, resurfacing the ghost of your usual self to make a joke. “Just… Don’t get used to it.”

(It’s a loaded line. A nervous ease back into normalcy. Don’t get used to being my hero.)

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

Then, like the gentleman he is:

“C’mon,” he chides, without bite, “It’s freezing out here,” and shrugs his jacket off in favor of wrapping it around you. Vintage carhartt. Thick. Warm from the heat of his body.

It smells dizzyingly of him. Something half-masculine and half-heady and above all— homely. 

Jack Abbot smells like coming home.

“Prince Charming, wow. Did you practice that move in front the mirror? Be honest,” you rib, sheepishly nestling into the scent and warmth like a cat that got the cream as he tugs at the front of the jacket. 

“Mm. Yeah, totally,” he nods, if only to see you secretly light up at him taking the bait. “I actually even scribbled an elaborate script into my palm too, if you wanna see—”

Your burst of laughter is bright, however small. Meets the gleam in your eyes and rounds your cheeks in song.

There it is, Abbot thinks, breaking into a dimpled smile. There you are.

A pelvic injury sends Trauma-2 running amok.

“Rummel tourniquet,” you deadpan, outraged. “Are you shitting me right now?”

Vascular is on the way down, Princess declares, hanging up the line. 2 minutes out!

“Yeah? Safer. Quicker. We can tie the bleeders shut in 30 seconds, tops,” Abbot shrugs distractedly, voice aloof as he peers past the suction. “Could even let Vascular skip their way here instead of running.”

“Pressure’s 40,” you grit, sidling past the nurses handing him his loops and equipment. “He needs a damn REBOA—”

“Which is overkill for this patient,” he interjects. “You heard the numbers from labs. His lactate is sky-high. Hemorrhagic shock. You balloon him now, you’ll risk ischemia on his super duper important organs, don’t you think?”

The condescending tone has one of the more tenderfoot MS glancing nervously between them. The others, though, seem to drift around the scene completely ordinarily.

You roll your eyes with a lazy scowl, but you’re grabbing the tubing anyway and handing it over to him. “You’d have done it either way even if he wasn’t in shock.”

He makes a face and a noise of assent. “Well, REBOA takes precious time compared to a Rummel, punchy, y’know this. Besides, I can see the artery right infront of me, so relax. Take a look. Textbook external iliac—”

“Yeah, yeah, I see it,” you bite, before sighing out a, “You’re a goddamn Jack-ass, y’know that?” 

If Abbot could’ve paused to meet your gaze he would have.

“Punk,” he counters.

“Jerk,” you volley.

“Look’s like Shark’s favourite pup is in,” Garcia, brows to hairline, hums. She watches you eerily circle the gurney like Park would, shark-like; the same pensive look in your eyes as you zero in on the angry, violaceous mottle swelling right above the patient’s sternum.

“I said please, didn’t I?” you shoot lazily over your shoulder. 

Robby and Garcia share a look. Half-amused, half-stunned. Enough for the bay to shift and click into place: It appears you’ve inherited a bit of Park’s notorious bite since they’ve last seen you down the ED.

“Got pulled out a once-in-a-lifetime procedure for an open scapular fracture all for a…” You straighten up from the bedside expectantly. “X-Ray, please? Thanks.”

You lean towards the machine revealing a—

“Posterior sternoclavicular displacement,” jumps in an obvious gunner, “which, presents rarely at 3% of all shoulder-related dislocations. So, kind of once-in-a-lifetime, too.”

A glacial beat drifts pass.

Beside him, Robby can see Whitaker visibly grimacing; steeling for the familiar, sharp Orthopaedic snap of, I’m not blind, to spear poor Ogilvie through like a hapless carp the same way he’d endured the humiliation from Park the Shark. 

But—

A snort is all you allow; and there ends all acknowledgement of the lanky MS’s existence.

…Arguably worse.

Garcia has to bite back an unnerved laugh. Fills in the chilling silence by presenting the case as you move to palpate the unconscious patient until Robby eventually runs down the list of concerns. 

Head, chest, abdomen clea… nd O2 looks good… irway patent since transport… don’t think it’s pressing up against her tra… Radial pulse has been strong and stea… hoping for a… 

“Closed reduction should be possible,” you conclude, after taking one final look to reckon the dislocation on-screen of the mobile X-Ray. “But I want her sent up to CT before she wakes. It’ll be the only window we can get her flat on her back without any complaints.”

“Alright,” Robby begins—

“Uh,” cuts in Whitaker, before he can stop himself, “Will the Shark be on this, considering it’s an uncommon case?”

You suck in a sharp breath at that, unimpressed. It’s enough to suspend the bay again into quiet stillness.

“There’s always a bigger fish,” comes your curt answer. It’s not hostile at all, but subtly edged enough to feel the nip from a familiar set of jagged, serrated teeth. 

It makes Whitaker wince again. 

“Doctor Park,” you correct, “sent me down personally to consult this case.” You circle back round to the exit in an efficient glide once more, snapping your gloves off pointedly. “If you have a problem with that,” you make a vague, cavalier jerk of your head upwards, “take it up to the Shark.”

The Resident deflates, wide-eyed. “Oh, no, no, I just… he’s my patient— I’m just, concerned—”

“Hey. I get it,” you dismiss, as courteously as you can muster. Try to shed that bracing energy that seems to follow you and have people defer uneasily at your feet. “Go follow her up, then. And make sure the dislocation isn’t agitated into something acute enough that’ll need a signed consent trip to the OR.”

Whitaker looks to Dr. Robby for assent, who shoots an amused nod of consent in return. “Go ahead. Dr. Park sent her down— means he trusts her.”

“Thank you. And you’re welcome, bottom-dwellers,” you mock-flourish, turning on your heel and immediately out the door. 

Then:

“Are all of them like that upstairs?” Ogilvie shudders, once he’s sure you’re out of earshot. 

The bark of laughter Robby lets out is met in unison with Garcia’s.

“Better toughen up, kid,” she scoffs. “She said please, thank you and you’re welcome. That’s the kindest Ortho consult you might ever experience in your entire career yet.”

The next time he’d been caught in an elevator trip up with the one and only fabled Shark of Ortho, Robby couldn’t help but muse aloud, “You sent your finest the other day.”

(If Robby had noticed the way Park visibly perked up at the mention of you, however, he didn’t make it known. Files it away with the other curiosities he’s noticed between you two inside his head.)

“Scared the shit out of my poor juniors,” he continues.

Park simply hums in amusement. “Good.”

A mythological creature of PTMC’s Orthopaedics Department— some beastly, thalassic leviathan— who’s all jagged rows of endless teeth and killer instinct; Made out to be a divine, merciless warden of the sea responsible for piecing together centuries old bones buried five fathoms deep into bedrock.

A virtuoso of his field who you owe your knowledge to. Who’d taught you the fearlessness common of surgeons, but also instilled in you the fear of failure that’s needed to temper it.

What is it that Garcia and Walsh like to call you residents under his wing (or fin—), again? 

Shark pups. 

Left to fend for yourselves most of the time. Sink or swim. A dogfight of devouring each other alive in a desperate attempt to keep your head above water; to make it through this riptide of a Residency and be the best of the best.

Park the Shark stands on a mantlepiece of his own making. A faultless reputation sharp enough to cut, and the stringent attitude to match that’s a given considering his medical prowess and achievements. The other juniors— aw, these your shark pups, Park?— tenderfoot and wet behind the ears, worship the ground he walks on like suck-up remoras.

You admire him, yes. But most of the time you just… try to get by. Keep your head down and stay out of his way. 

(Not that you never advocated for yourself, that is. Being a woman in a particularly male-dominated specialty has only drilled into you an extra layer of thick-skin from criticism and inherent misogyny. You don’t fawn to the quote-unquote Ortho-bros, and have enough clever sense to know when to be candid without crossing the line.)

Perhaps that’s why he’d quickly clamped his jaws around you.

Always seen as the ‘favourite’; the ‘Prodigal Daughter/Mentee’, even if it never remotely feels like you’re worth any of Park’s precious time. 

Resentful, the other Residents eventually came to the conclusion that competition starts with you: 

Always the one personally selected to assist in Park’s odd cases, always the one his shark-like gaze searches for first in a crowd, always the one getting teeth sunken into and then humiliatingly chewed out for the smallest, mindless things because You’re supposed to be the competent one out of all the others, for fuck’s sake. 

They spin yarns of boyish rumors. Call you names that stick. Sharkbait, Catch, when they’re feeling particularly bitter. Or the Jewel of the Sea; Park’s prized (Mother-of-)Pearl, when they’re feeling particularly childish.

It’s fine. You can ignore those, and let your work do the talking. Besides, they never do address you that way around Dr. Park, anymore— not after he’d nearly bitten the head off of one of the R3’s after he’d overheard you openly be called Chum-dump in passing.

(“The fuck did you just say?”

“Uh… Nothing. I— It won't happen again. Sorry, Dr. Park.”

“The hell you apologising to me for and not her?”)

You tell yourself it’s just because Park doesn’t want to be associated with the likes of you; that it’s nothing to do with him being chivalrous— he’s just being professional. Doing his due duty as your Senior Attending to browbeat workplace misconduct.

(Don’t think too much of it. He doesn’t care. You’re not of value to him in any way you think.

How does the saying go? Never cast pearls before swine—)

You wonder if he’s aware of how much his implicit bias has you isolated in an already isolating field for a woman. A target on your back. How his apparent unspoken ambition for you and your capabilities alone have become somewhat of an albatross around your neck. 

You’ve done the work to get here, you remember him muttering mid-procedure once. I might make a surgeon out of you yet.

Park is utilitarian; he doesn’t waste time on petty endeavours— he couldn’t possibly be doing it on purpose, could he? To keep you orbiting close to him whether you like it or not, lonely from the ostracism you receive from your fellow peers, all for the sake of imparting in you what’s best. Deliberately exploiting his influence into favouritism so you rely on him and only him for company; starved for kinship.

None of which he ever gives you, either way.

Just his stoic, brooding silence. A single hum of assent or curt nod when you answer his questions flawlessly during one of his rare moods of actual teaching (“Hm. You’ll close after I’m done, pup.”); Or his lingering presence over your shoulder in the breakroom when you’re brewing a fresh pot of coffee, shoulders brushing (“I take it black.”).

Feels more like bait, really. Dangling right in front of you; waiting for you to take the bite. 

Or have you already bitten?

“ED’s paging. You don’t need me in here,” Park declares, over a traumatic pelvic crush injury slowly coming to its end. He nods to the surgeons in Vascular when they say they’ll finish up the rest of the procedure, and jerks his head at you to degown. “You. With me.”

The elevator sinks both of you all the way down to the bottom-dwellers. Emergency Medicine: a never-ending bustle of nervous energy and raucous commotion of sounds that grates at Park’s ears. When he sails into Trauma Bay 2 with you tailed close behind, medical staff part for him like the Red Sea; shoal of fish dispersing from an apex predator.

Robby greets him calmly despite the patient groaning his lungs out. Garcia is already rattling off an efficient presentation. …Crush injury to foot and ank… Compartment syndro… torn between salvaging the limb t… what do you think? 

Meanwhile, a pair of impressionable Med Students observe, rapt, as you glove up and curiously round the writhing patient in the exact same way Dr. Park does— an unconscious habit you’ve picked up from him; circling calculatingly like a shark sniffing out blood in the water. (Do you hear that? quietly nudges one of the Residents, the JAWS theme?)

They watch as you shadow Park, comically insignificant against the hulking brawn of him, scrutinising the X-Ray of the patient’s shattered foot. It’s a unique case, alright: a complex multiple fracture of practically every bone in his foot up to his ankle from a freak accident. 

Even Park reacts with a tiny, impressed snort that only you manage to catch by chance proximity.

“Give me something for the fucking pain already!” a voice lashes out, synchronising you and Park into sparing a narrow glance up from the bedside of the patient’s gurney.

“Mr. Aldrich, we’ve already given you more pain meds after the regional block,” soothes one of the ER nurses, “the ketamine will take a minute to kick in—”

“Screw you nurses!” he hisses, thrashing his head pointedly at you as he squirms in place. “Get me a real doctor!”

“You’ve got multiple in one room here to help you, Sir,” Garcia overrides, humorously, “take your pick.”

An exasperated growl. “Fucking, I don’t know, a bone doctor?!”

“Good news! You’ve got Orthopaedics to your left,” she gestures, shooting you an amused look.

Mr. Aldrich glares harshly at you. “Well? Move, bitch, and let me talk to the big guy behind you.”

Across the bay, Robby doesn’t get to snap at the verbal harassment in time. No, it’s—

—Dr. Park, pinning his tenebrous gaze at the patient as he cocks his head ominously.

“You’re gonna wanna speak respectfully to the ‘bone doctors’ responsible for getting you back on your feet, Sir,” he drawls, sangfroid as always before returning his attention completely to Robby.

(You don’t try to pick apart the notable undercurrent of… something in his tone. Chalk it off as non-negotiable decorum. If it isn’t Dr. Park who’d have said something, you’re sure someone else would have.)

Hell of a fracture, you ignore the patient, running a mental map of the potential procedures it’d take and what the prognosis would look like. Dr. Park busies himself with more details regarding the injury: mechanism, labs, drugs. Pokes and prods clinically at the patient’s numbed foot.

“We’re gonna need your consent, Sir,” comes everyone’s eventual finalised conclusion, where you keep your tone as calm as possible in a bid to deescalate the tension, “before we get you prepped for surgery.”

“You better fucking make sure I walk again,” he seethes. “My legs are my livelihood, you know that? Do you know who I am?”

“Mr. Aldrich,” you answer, patiently. “I’m taking that as a yes?”

“Oh, you think you’re fucking funny, do you—?”

An iron-grip stops the patient’s forearm short well before you even register it:

A swing at you. An attempt to snatch at you from the bedside to drag you like an undertow.

Sharks are a predatory species born with sixth sense. An innate electroreception that helps them zero in on the most sensitive of muscle movements within close-range. Top of the food chain. Evolutionarily driven by pure, lethal instinct leading them to their prey.

You wonder, idly, if Dr. Park has it too—

Bloodlust. Untamed animalism prowling somewhere behind his hunter eyes. His scrub sleeves are pulled tight from the flex of his biceps, tension of corded muscles in his forearms taut with brutal force from where he’s canceled out the threat in a whipcrack of a second: shackling the patient’s wrist effortlessly in a dizzyingly lightning-quick reflex.

Your heart stutters at the scene.

“Go on,” Park dares, voice glacially cold and sea-pelagic dark. “Take a swipe at my resident again, and I will break each and every single bone in your hand before resetting all 27 pieces of it back together.”

A beat.

You’d have been able to hear a pin drop in the trauma bay, somehow, from how suspended everything feels.

Akin to witnessing an abyssal leviathan come to breach ashore after being provoked.

It makes something treacherous take flight in your chest. 

That for as much as a supercilious asshole Park is sometimes, he still keeps a controlled, watchful eye on those in his wake as a mentor. Utilises that intimidating, ubiquitous command of presence he carries to his unfair advantage when things go leeways into dangerous waters.

It’s not heart, per se. But it’s certainly something rare. Some abstract, omnipresent patina of his that surrounds your being like a levee and safely harbours you. Shoreline rock armour, almost: Feeling like the broad, muscled stonewall that is Dr. Park has become your own living, breathing, metaphorical breakwater. 

You find yourself foolishly replaying his words like a broken record in your head.

My resident.

The patient visibly deflates, snatching his weak arm free from Park’s vice-like clutch as he rears back and loses all bravado. “I consent to the surgery,” he grits out, still turning his nose up against everybody. “After that I’ll sue all of you assholes for— for harassment. And you! For threatening me.”

Robby and Garcia bite back a laugh at the irony.

“Looking forward to it,” Park sneers, aggressively snapping his gloves off. He turns back to you and, uncharacteristically, nods at you to sidle past first and make headway towards the exit. “I’ll book an OR.”

Thanks, Shark, Robby calls out, gaze flickering curiously between you two before it lands as a side-eye to Garcia— who also seems to be trying to decipher something nameless as Park hovers close behind you.

The entire ordeal leaves a buzz under your skin.

My resident, you repeat again. His chum. His catch. His coveted pearl; his favourite pup—

The words are muffled in your memory. Underwater. The flash of canine-sharp teeth as he bit the threat out, cavalier, deceivingly calm. The unbidden warmth of safety blooming in your ribcage after he’d put himself between you and danger, and you’d essentially been tucked protectively behind the fabled Shark of PTMC’s Orthopaedics.

You should neither be allured nor girlishly thrilled at the idea of Park showing any semblance of anger at your behest— you’re in a hospital, for christ’s sake, not the cold open of a romance novel— But who doesn’t like to be defended at times? Let alone by the most notoriously unsympathetic surgeon you’ve ever come to know yet? 

“Thank you,” you muster the courage, once both of you are taking the silent ride back up to the Ortho-wards, “for earlier.”

He scoffs. It’s delivered, surprisingly, with less bite than you steeled yourself for.

“How about you keep your head on a swivel,” he advises pointedly, glaring down at you with disapproval. “Should’ve just let him grab you. Might’ve learned a lesson or two.”

But you’ve worked alongside him long enough to catch the minutest of tidal shifts in his callous voice— an antsiness; the faux-calm of doldrums out at sea. Something hadal in you knows that had the patient actually managed to snatch you in that riptide grip of his, Park would have ensured the man left the hospital with no functioning hands at all.

Or perhaps it’s just a delusion. Feverish calenture. A self-indulgent desire to have secretly collared the terrifying Park the Shark to be your own proverbial seadog: 

Bristling and snapping his serrated teeth at anyone that got too close; orbiting you like a predator possessively guarding their own claimed territory. Exclusively yours. 

(“Only I get to call you pup,” he’d said, once upon a time. Out of context, it makes your head reel every time you recall it.)

“Yeah. Sorry,” you say, pathetically. A force of habit; defaulting into deference.

Only—

“Are you?” he narrows, shrewdly.

It feels like something’s buried itself right into its target. Harpoon to a siren’s heart. 

“I—I…” you blink. Stumble your words. No, comes the candid instinct. You think of how he’d stepped in, how he’d handled the danger; All for you. I liked it.

“Don’t get used to me playing nice,” he continues at last, looking damningly straight into your soul.

It lights your body aflame. Feel a rush to your cheeks at the unintended (perhaps?) implication of his words. “That’s your nice, Dr. Park?”

The elevator dings through the charged air. He turns back forward lazily.

“For you,” he grunts dismissively. “Yeah.”

You blink. The doors slide open. 

You smiled to yourself while typing. "Mine's worse now that I'm pregnant. Yesterday he tried to meal prep for me."

"Oh?" Santos asked from the next computer. "How'd that go?"

"He labeled every container by protein count."

"Sounds intense," Santos muttered.

"He is intense," you agreed easily. "But he means well."

Nobody thought much about it then. Because everybody in the ER about your husband.

Well, sort of. They knew he existed. They knew he packed your lunches sometimes. That he texted reminders for vitamins. That he apparently folded laundry with terrifying precision. That he hated when you worked overtime but still stayed awake until you got home anyway.

They knew he rubbed your swollen feet after shifts. They knew he was "ridiculously overprotective." They knew he called you "doctor" sarcastically whenever you forgot to take care of yourself.

They knew you adored him, but they didn't know his name.

And somehow, over months of working together, nobody ever asked. Or maybe they had once and gotten distracted by a trauma alert halfway through.

That was the thing about the ER. Conversations happened infragments.

So your husbands became this faceless mythical man everyone pieced together from tiny details.

And because you were basically sunshine in human form (You were the warmest, most patient, endlessly kind person), everyone imagined your husband accordingly.

Probably some sweet elementary school teacher. Or a soft-spoken accountant. Or maybe a stay-at-home husband who baked sourdough and wore cardigans.

Definitely not Brendon Park. Absolutely not him.

The first time most of the ER really met Brendon was during a motorcycle trauma.

The ortho pager had gone off twenty minutes earlier and everyone was already stressed. The patient had multiple fractures, a discolated shoulder, and enough road rash to make the interns pale.

Then he walked in. Tall, broad-shouldered. No greeting, no wasted movement, just immediate assessment,

"X-rays," his voice cut through the chaos.

Someone handed them over. Brendon studied them for maybe three seconds.

"We'll prep OR two. I want vascular on standby."

Ogilvie beside him started talking. "So we were thinking—"

"No," Brendon interrupted without even looking at him. "You were guessing."

Silence. Ogilvie visibly shrank.

"Comminuted tib-fib fracture with displacement. If you'd waited another hour, he'd lose perfusion."

The room went still. Not because he was wrong, but because he was terrifying.

Then his eyes shifted toward you. And the entire atmosphere changed so subtly that nobody noticed it except maybe Santos.

Your shoulders relaxed just slightly. Brendon's expression remained unreadable, but his gaze lingered on you for half a second too long.

"You've been here since morning," he said flatly.

"Hello to you too."

"Did you eat?"

The room paused.

You looked midly defensive. "Yes."

"You're lying."

"I had crackers."

"That's not food."

Ogilvie who'd just been verbally executed stared between you both in confusion. The Shark did not do conversation, yet here he was arguing with you about crackers.

You rolled your eyes. "I'm busy."

"You're pregnant."

"And?"

"And you require actual nutrition."

Santos coughed to hide a laugh. Brendon ignored everybody. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and placed a protein bar beside your keyboard without saying anything else.

Then he turned and walked away. No goodbye or no explaination. He just left.

The ER collectively stared at the protein bar. Then at you. Then back at the protein bar.

Santos finally broke the silence. "...What the hell was that?"

You unwrapped the bar casually. "He gets grumpy when I forget to eat."

"You know Park the Shark?" Santos asked slowly.

You looked confused. "Brendon?"

The entire station froze at the first-name basis.

"What do you mean, Brendon?" Santos asked.

"That's his name."

"No one calls him Brendon."

"Oh," you took a bite of the protein bar. "I do."

After that, people started noticing things. Little things.

Like how Brendon only ever lingered in the ER when you were there. How he answered everyone else with clipped professionalism but always gave you full sentences.

How you somehow never seemed intimidated by him. Everyone else treated Brendon like a shark circling bloody water, you treated him like an annoyed housecat.

One afternoon, during a particularly miserable shift, you were sitting at the station rubbing your lower back.

"God," you muttered. "My husband bought six different pregnancy pillows."

Dana laughed. "Six?"

"He said the first five didn't have the right feeling."

"What does that even mean?"

"I don't even want to know."

Then Santos frowned. "Wait. Wasn't Park carrying a giant package into the parking lot yesterday?"

You didn't look up from your charting. "Probably."

"And didn't he get irritated at at someone who bumped into him because it caused him to drop it all?"

"Oh, that was ours."

Silence.

You blinked up. "What?"

Santos stared at you carefully. "You and Park live in the same building?"

"Oh." You smiled absentmindedly. "Yeah."

Another silence. Santos looked deeply concerned now.

"You're... close with him?"

You laughed. "I mean, I would hope so."

Nobody knew what to say to that. Because there was no way. No way.

You were married, pregnant even. Completely in love with your husband, whoever he was.

And Brendon Park looked at most human interaction like it personally offended him.

Yet somehow he kept appearing around you like a shadow, like it was gravity.

The rumors exploded after an incident at the cafeteria. You had been off your shift for exactly eleven minutes when Brendon walked into the cafeteria still in his scrubs.

And everyone noticed that. Because Brendon never went to the cafeteria (He barely seemed to consume food). He scanned the room once and found you immediately. THen walked over carrying a tray.

Without asking, he switched your coffee with a different one.

"You can't have that much caffeine."

You looked offended. "It was half-caf."

"It was basically battery acid."

"You tasted it?"

"You left it on the counter this morning."

Brendon sat across from you naturally, like this happened every day.

You pointed at his tray. "You got fries?"

"You wanted fries."

"I mentioned fries once."

"You cried about it."

"I was emotional that time."

"You threatened divorce."

The tables surrounding you stared. The conversation sounded disgustingly domestic.

Brendon pushed the fries toward you first before touching his own food. You stole half of them and he didn't complain.

Actually, he watched you eat with this faintly distracted expression that nobody had ever seen on his face before. Like he was making sure you were really eating.

Then your phone buzzed. You checked it and groaned.

"The husband says I forgot my appointment tomorrow."

Brendon immediately said, "Ten-thirty."

You looked at him. "I know."

"You forgot."

"I remembered eventually."

"You remembered because I reminded you."

The silence at the table became defeaning, like somehow everyone was staring at you. Brendon glanced around once, clearly unimpressed by the collective lack of intelligence.

Then his pager went off. And before leaving, he reached down and adjusted you chair closer to the table because you'd been sitting awkwardly with your belly.

The movement was instinctive, like he'd done this a million times. And it was weirdly intimate.

The second he disappeared, Langdon sat on the seat that Brendon just occupied.

"Oh my God."

You frowned. "What?"

He leaned forward carefully. "Are you having an affair with Brendon Park?"

You nearly choked on a fry. "What?"

"That man practically tucked you in!"

"He's just—"

"You literally just talked about threatening him with divorce!"

"My husband!"

"Exactly!"

You stared at him in disbelief before realization dawned.

"Oh my god."

"So, you are!"

"No I'm not, Frank."

"Then why does The Shark know your OB schedule?"

"Because he made it."

Silence. "...Made it?" Langdon repeated weakly."

"He color-coded the whole calendar."

He didn't speak. Then you laughed, actually laughed. Because suddenly the misunderstanding was hysterical. But before you could explain, a trauma alert blared overhead and the conversation died instantly.

Unfortunately for you, the rumor did not.

Within a week, the entire ER thought you were secretly involved with Brendon.

Not openly. Nobody confronted you directly again because you seemed so genuinely confused by the accusation.

But people whispered. The evidence kept piling up. Brendon carrying your bag without asking, appearing whenever you mentioned cravings, glaring at anyone who stressed you out, standing suspiciously close during procedures if you looked tired.

And worst of all? The way he looked at you when you weren't paying attention.

That's what really convinced people. Because Brendon looked at everyone else like they personally wronged him. He looekd at you like you were something precious.

Then one night, the ER was hell. Every bed was full, three ambulanced inbound, a drunk patient screaming in triage.

You were exhausted, hormonal, and dangerously close to crying. Then one of the newer interns snapped at you.

"Can we get another attending to handle this? Dr. L/N clearly isn't keeping up."

The station went silent. Your exhaustion sharpened into humiliation. And before you could answer, a voice cut through the room.

"No."

Everyone turned. Brendon stood near the doors, having apparently arrived seconds earlier. The intern straighted nervously.

"Repeat what you said."

The poor intern paled. "I didn't mean—"

"You questioned an attending physician with ten years of emergency medicine experience while you can barely place an IV."

The room became deathly still. Brendon's voice never rose which somehow made it scarier.

"You will either assist competently or get out of her department."

Her department. The possessiveness in those words hit everybody like a truck.

The intern muttered an apology. Brendon didn't even look at him again. Instead, he turned to you.

"You're shaking."

"I'm fine."

Brendon's hand briefly touched the underside of your belly as he adjusted your position from the station edge.

It was gentle. So different from the cold surgeon everyone knew.

And suddenly Santos understood. Not the affair, but something else. Something much bigger.

"Oh my god," she whispered.

Dennis looked at her. "What?"

But she was staring at Brendon. At the wedding band hidden beneath his gloves as he reached for the chart. At the identical band you wore on a chain around your neck because pregnancy swelling made your fingers ache.

At the way you entire body relaxed when he was near. At the way he knew every tiny thing about you.

Not like a lover, like a husband.

"Oh my god," Santos repeated louder.

You looked up. Brendon looked annoyed already, like he sensed where this was going.

Santos pointed between the two of you. "You're married."

You blinked. "Yeah?"

Brendon closed his eyes briefly like this was exhausting.

You looked genuinely baffled. "Who else would we be married to?"

Chaos. Absolute chaos.

"You let us think she was cheating on her husband?!" Santos yelled at Brendon.

Brendon looked unimpressed. "That sounds like a you problem."

"You never said—"

"Well, nobody asked."

"You literally acted like you hated each other!"

You burst out laughing. "What? No we don't."

Brendon looked down at you. And for the first time ever, in front of the entire ER, his expression softened completely.

Not subtly or barely there, but fully. Warm eyes. Affection. Something that was gentle.

Park the Shark was apparently somebody's husband. Somebody's incredibly devoted husband. And somehow that was more shocking than if he'd announced he killed people.

And somehow, from that day on, things became infinitely worse. Because now everyone noticed everything.

The quiet touches. The instinctive teamwork. The fact that Brendon always knew where you were in the hospital. The way he softened only for you.

The way you could make the scariest surgeon in the building carry your snacks and hold your coffee and rub circles into your back between traumas.

And worst of all?

Now the ER knew that every horrifyingly domestic story you told about your husband had been all about Brendon Park all along.

Which completely destroyed their ability to fear him properly anymore. Especially after they heard him answer your phone one day with:

"Baby, why are you calling me from upstairs?"

Now it wasn’t like everyone outright asked him, most skirting around the topic, too afraid to ask, too timid to broach such a personal topic. 

But there were times where some intern or student let their curiosity get the better of them. 

Had let the question pass by their filter. 

And that such time was now. 

As Ogilvie raised a brow, pointed at Jack’s leg and straight up asked, “How’d you lose it?” 

A hush falling over those nearby, a huff of annoyance at his blunt question. The insensitivity of it all. 

But in Jack’s eyes, the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. 

As Jack catches sight of PTMC’s Shark. The chilling orthopedic surgeon that made everyone’s blood freeze at the sight of him. 

That made people part and duck their heads, averting their gaze. 

Only a select few found the ability to stand toe-to-toe with him. To not waver in his presence. 

And one of those few, was Jack Abbot.  

A grin slipping onto Jack’s face as he answers dryly in response to Ogilvie's question, “Bitten off by a shark" 

Jutting a finger over towards Park, "That one, that one took my leg,” the words were so blatant, and dry. 

An expression of complete seriousness taking over Jack’s features as he spoke. 

One that Ogilvie honestly couldn’t decipher from being real or false. His mind knew it was a joke, and yet Jack’s delivery couldn’t have sounded more honest. 

Catching word of the joke, Park merely scoffed with the slightest shake of his head, concealing the faintest chuckle beneath his breath. 

It wasn’t the first time Jack had made that joke. 

And both knew it certainly wouldn’t be the last. The joke never once got old, for either of them. 

Jack often brushed off questions about his leg with a simple, before you ask…it was a shark. It was one of Jack’s favourite jokes when avoiding the topic. 

Jack shot a look back at Ogilvie, “Now shouldn’t you be helping with hand-offs?”

“Uh–yeah, course,” His eyes widened, stammering slightly with a nod of his head, ducking away. 

Jack clicks his tongue, turning to face Park, “I swear that kid is going to make a fight break out in here if he doesn’t learn to bite his tongue” 

An air of mutual respect hangs between them. A silent understanding between the two. 

“And this is why I chose to go into surgery and not emergency med”

“Hm, and why’s that?”

“The patients tend to be less chatty,” Brendon’s eyes glance up at the clock, eyes furrowing as he simply nods towards Jack. “Makes it easier to talk shit” 

Jack merely chuckles from his response, patting his back before Park disappears back upstairs. 

It was rare. 

But not an uncommon sight to see Jack and Brendon get along.  

Whenever they passed each other, every one could tell that there was a friendliness between their interactions. 

No one could quite pinpoint why. 

Or how. 

But it was clear that Brendon tolerated Jack. 

But this mutual respect didn’t mean Jack didn’t divulge himself in a little gossip here and then about the Shark. 

Whether he’d be passing by as his colleagues spoke, catching wind that the topic was about Park.

He’d add certain little things, “I heard he only ever listens to the soundtrack of Jaws whilst he operates” True or not, he liked to poke fun at the man. 

“And how do you know that?” Santos would raise a brow in question. 

Jack would simply shrug, “Heard it from someone I know”

It’d be simple things, small things that amused Jack. 

Slipping in little truths here and there. 

The information always chalked up to having heard it from someone he knew. 

Now this someone as far as anyone knew could’ve been anyone, from admin, to a scrub nurse to a fellow doctor in the hospital that Jack was friends with. 

No one any wiser to the fact that he was, in fact, referring to his wife.

Brendon Park’s sister. 

You. 

It was no secret to the staff of PTMC’s emergency department that Jack was happily married. 

He proudly wore his wedding ring for all to see. 

Speaking highly of you, a clear pride and deep devotion in his tone as he spoke of you. 

He kept a photo of you in his wallet, and his camera roll was filled with photos of you and him, simply happy. Just waiting to be pulled out and scrolled through. 

The sight of you never failed to bring a smile to Jack’s face.  

Slipping you into the conversation with ease. Without even realising it, he could easily spend minutes talking about you to anyone that would listen.

On occasion even doting about you to his patients whilst he worked. 

Going on and on about how strong and courageous you were. Fearless. Compassionate.

…

From the moment Jack had laid eyes on you. 

His first thought was that you were smoking hot. 

Literally smoking as you brushed away at the ashes from your suit, smoke curling from behind you. 

Whilst you walked out of the building you and your team had just wrangled with, containing the burning embers until they were out. 

He was on the scene assisting the SWAT team as a medic. 

And he simply couldn’t take his eyes off of you as you carried yourself with confidence. Words firm as you made the next orders for your team. You were captivating. As you took control of the chaos around you. 

How you had taken the time to crouch down and console one of a young boy who had gotten caught up in this mess. 

It was that little boy that had brought you over to him. 

Having tugged off your glove, your hand was wrapped with his, as you stopped before Jack. The slight dusting of embers on your cheek. 

“Do you mind checking up on him? Just want to make sure he didn’t inhale too much of the smoke,” you had asked. “I’d go to the EMTs, but they’re all a bit preoccupied at the moment” 

Jack nodded, “Of course,” his eyes moving down to the boy, whilst he crouched before him, to appear a little more friendly. 

“What’s your name, kid?” 

“George” 

“Well George, I’m Dr Abbot, but you can call me Jack. Do you mind if I take a look at you, make sure everything’s ok?” 

George nods, “Ok,” his hand never lets go of yours. Clutching it tightly. 

“You were pretty brave in there,” Jack said whilst glancing up at you. 

You shrugged slightly, “All part of the job, isn’t it?” 

Eyes drifting down to the little boy by your side, “Though I think you were braver than me George, maybe you’ll be a firefighter one day huh?”

“Or you could be a doctor?” Jack added. 

While George’s nose scrunched up laughing at the two of you. His mind drifted away from the stressful events, as he focused on you both. 

“Saving lives, and helping people,” Jack continues to say. 

While you twist your mouth, debating his words, “Firefighters do all that too, and we get to ride in a pretty cool truck, what do you say George?” 

Whilst George tilts his head in thought. 

Jack chuckles, feigning defeat, “When you say it like that, being a firefighter does sound pretty cool” 

“Then I’ll count on seeing you at the sign ups,” you remark jokingly. 

Jack’s hands moved swiftly, announcing anytime he did something, and what he was checking for. From checking his pupils, to listening to his heartbeat, Jack was thorough.

“Can you take a deep breath in for me George?” Jack asks, while George agrees, “One, two, three, and out, that’s it.”

Your eyes watch as Jack continues to be gentle, humorous as he makes the young boy laugh. 

There was something soothing about Jack. 

Something that made the adrenaline coursing through you begin to rest and settle. Heart steadying. 

“Seems like everything is in order, George, I’d offer you a lollipop but it seems like one of the only things I don’t have in my pockets,” Jack jokes. 

“Hey Park! We’ve located the kid’s mom,” one of your colleagues called over. Whilst you nodded in acknowledgement, before looking back at Jack. 

“Thanks again for the help, doc”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Jack nodded. 

You both hesitate for a moment, not yet wanting to part. “I don’t know what it is about you Abbot, but something tells me you’re trouble” 

“Hopefully the good kind,” he replies, with a small quirk of his lip. 

“–Park, c’mon!” you’re urged once more. 

“I’m coming,” You hum, with a small nod of your head as you wave at Jack. “I’ll see you around” 

“See ya” 

One of his colleagues comes up to his side, as Jack’s eyes follow you. “Who was that?”

“I don’t know, but I’d like to,” he replied. 

Clapping his shoulder, Jack’s attention snapped to the side, “Maybe next time Romeo,” and with that Jack is pulled away to attend to another injury. 

From that moment on. 

It felt like each time Jack saw a fire truck or a cluster of firefighters, he always, without meaning to, searched for your face in the crowd. Had kept an eye out just to see you once more. 

Until eventually it had faded.

His hope had begun to dissipate. Pittsburgh was a big city afterall. The chance of seeing you again was slim to none. 

Days turned into weeks, which had turned into months. 

Until you had become a distant memory, simply a nice idea. 

Well. 

That was until you had tapped on his shoulder. Whilst standing in line at a coffee shop one late afternoon, smiling as he met your eye. 

You would be lying to say your mind didn’t drift to the memory of the medic you had met all those months ago. 

The image of him flitting into the forefront of your mind. How his eyes held a depth to them, unwavering, calculating. The way he held eye contact with you. Softening ever so slightly. 

There was a story behind those hazel eyes. 

A story you wanted to know. 

Eyes tracing his features, as you took in his appearance. No longer wearing the camo tactile suit of a SWAT medic, instead simply in a black t-shirt and cargo pants. 

Upon meeting your eyes, they blinked in surprise, before a smile graced his features. 

“Well if it isn’t Pittsburgh’s finest firefighter,” he tilts his head, “It’s good seeing you again”

“I see I made quite an impression,” you grinned. With this look in your eye that had him enthralled. 

“As if I could forget, Park wasn’t it?” he said. 

With a smile you nodded in confirmation, “But you can call me Y/N” 

“Well if you’re not busy, how about you join me for some coffee?” 

You pause for a moment, letting the offer stand in the air. Before you eventually nod, “I’d love to”

“Great,” a twinkle sparked in his eyes. 

Intrigue developing. 

Laughter and smiles shared over coffee. Swapping stories from your own funny moments as a firefighter to Jack’s own mishaps in the ER. 

A friendship gained, with the feeling that something more could develop. 

When schedules aligned. You’d share a coffee or tea, or whatever you felt like, maybe even breakfast before your shift started and after his shift ended. 

You had grown closer until soon, the line between friendship and something more had become blurred. 

As Jack leaned in, hand caressing your cheek gently. Waiting, tentative, longing to cross that line. Until you tugged him down, crashing your lips against his, melting into his embrace with a sigh. 

It was messy at first, clumsy and new. 

Trying to find your rhythm together. But once you did. It was absolute bliss. A peace harbouring between you both. 

Understanding one another, even in the silences when words felt too difficult to say. 

That wasn’t to say it was all perfect. 

That there weren’t times you wanted to pull your hair out in frustration as he’d shut you out. Or times where you would be reckless coming home worn out from a shift as Jack would incessantly worry over you. 

But you both pulled through. 

You learned to grow, to be better. For yourselves. And for each other. 

Jack should’ve known that a life with you would always be full of surprises. 

Especially when you insisted he meet your brother. 

The brother you had mentioned a handful of times, how he was scary but a real softy once you got to know him. 

Imagine Jack’s surprise when he opened the door to your home, only to be confronted by the sight of Brendon Park. 

The orthopedic surgeon known as the Shark of the very hospital that Jack worked at. 

It definitely started out as a tense meeting. 

Whilst you tried your best to melt the tension. It didn’t go past you to see how Brendon’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing at Jack. How Jack held his gaze. Cool. Unflinching. 

Both simply, polite. But nothing more. 

A stale mate. 

Only once you slapped him in the arm did his cold facade begin to fracture. “Cool it,” you muttered to Brendon with a pointed look.  

Jack watched as Brendon relaxed, how it was clear he cared for you. The way you both interacted with ease. A clear bond. 

A side to Brendon he never thought he would get to see. 

Jack followed your lead as you teased Brendon, whilst Jack would add his own quips, growing bolder with each passing meeting. 

And though Brendon was never one to reveal the cards closest to his chest. 

He was glad to see you so happy with Jack. 

And even happier when he watched as you and Jack had exchanged your, I Dos, words of cherished promises and love. Brendon couldn’t believe it, the little girl he once grew up with was now grown and married. 

Hell, Brendon still couldn’t believe the risks you put yourself through day in and day out as a firefighter. 

Even if at times all Brendon wanted to do was wrap you up in bubble wrap and ensure you were ok. He knew that wasn’t a solution. 

But no matter what, no matter how much time would pass he would always worry over you. It was part of his job as your brother.

Even if you were confident and able. 

Fearless. Bold. 

When you walked into a room it was as though you would gain control of it. Eyes would look to you. Your shoulders pushed back, a keen look in your eye. 

You and Jack made quite the pair. 

That was the you that those in the ER had grown to know. In the fleeting moments when you’d drop by, You’d always take a moment to say hello to everyone whenever time allowed. 

Even sometimes bringing in a little something for everyone to eat – knowing all too well the negative impact an empty stomach can have on morale. 

You were always a welcomed sight.  

Unfortunately. 

Tonight was one of those nights they wished they didn’t see you. On the cusp of changeover, just as the night shifters had begun to filter in as those from the day began to file out. 

A trauma had been called through. 

Another trauma. 

Nothing out of the ordinary, especially for those in the Pitt. Barely batted an eye at the information, simply going through the motions as they prepared for it. 

Female, a firefighter that had simply got caught in a bad accident. 

What no one had expected however. 

Was you. 

The moment the gurney rolled through the doors it felt like everyone had their breaths caught in their throat. 

Snapping back into motion as they hear your muffled groans. 

Jack felt like he couldn’t move. 

It felt like his heart had stopped. 

You were lying there. 

Covered in soot. Your gear, partially cut away. A cervical collar wrapped around your neck. One of your legs securely stabalised in an inflated splint. 

Bruises already blooming across your jaw. 

Yet somehow. 

Somehow. 

You still managed a grin, running high on adrenaline or on the medications, that was something you couldn’t decipher. 

“Hey–” you managed to choke out, voice strained. 

“Jesus Christ," Jack had muttered, feet moving fast as he moved beside you. Eyes flickering to everything and everyone as they work around you. 

You pull his attention back to you, as you grasp his hand. “Look at me,” you said firmly. 

His brows knitted. Worry plastered all over his face. 

“Don’t do that”

“Do what?” 

“That face, that terrified look doesn’t suit you,” you mumble out, breathing short between your words. “Especially on your handsome face”

A few of the others in the room stifle a laugh. 

Jack bites his lip, before sucking in a harsh breath, “I’m sorry love,” his hand clasps yours tighter. Unable to shake the worry from his features. 

“I’m going to be fine” 

No matter how many times you might say that to him. Jack’s shoulders remained tense. On edge. His attention flickers between you and your vitals. Doing his best to keep you alert. 

To keep you talking.

To keep you breathing. 

To keep you smiling. 

Because smiling meant that you were okay. At least, okay by your standards.  

Robby moved fluidly, quick and efficient, doing his very best to ensure you were going to make it through this. He was not going to be the reason Jack lost another wife…

“Page ortho,” he had directed, eyes assessing your leg. No signs of broken skin tissue, which was good, less risk of infection. But there was clearly something wrong with your leg. 

Ordering scans as they assess the damage. 

Shit.

That was the thought that had crossed Jack’s mind once the word ortho filled the air. Eyes glancing down to his watch.  

There was no way Park would still be here.

No way that he would be the surgeon called down. 

A wave of relief had washed over him as the orthopede that had appeared, was instead one of the residents. 

Watching intently as they worked upon you, feeling the weight of Jack’s eyes. 

It seems. 

That Jack’s slight relief was short lived. 

“What’s the verdict?” Park’s deep voice echoed in the room. 

The universe has a strange sense of humour. 

The room stilled. 

As Brendon appeared at the door. Eyes stern, cold, calculating as he glances at those around the room. 

But once his eyes land on you. 

He freezes. 

Eyes widening, a lump forming in his throat. Dana might have called him down here. 

But this was not what he had expected to see. 

Not who he had expected to see. 

When she had said the words urgently. He imagined a lot of different scenarios. But he never once expected to see you here. 

“It appears to be a fractured tibia,” the resident reported. 

You snorted, “Think it’d be okay if I borrow your crutches?” you teased Jack. 

“Do you really think this is the time to be joking?” 

“You could teach me how to use ‘em,” you continued. 

Those around you laugh lightly from your jokes.

All except for Brendon and Jack. 

“What happened?” Brendon’s face hardened. 

Just as the resident was about to speak up, about to explain the details of your fractured tibia. They stopped short, noticing that his attention was directed at you. 

“I’m fine,” you replied.

Brendon shook his head, moving to assess the imaging himself, “Fine people don’t get wheeled into the ER” 

“Everyone has a bad day,” you shrug, wincing slightly from the movement. Jack’s hand grips yours tighter. 

“And what did your bad day include?” he asks, words clipped. 

“Building collapsed, that’s all,” you murmured. Your other hand waved lazily, trying to decrease the situation. 

“Y/N?” he asked once more. 

You simply complained, “Oh my god, you’re hovering”

His brows knit at your words, “I’m not hovering, just worried. Right Jack?”

“Right,” Jack nodded. 

Brendon crosses his arms over his chest, lips pulled taut. 

"I am making sure you're okay."

But there was this glint in your eye, one that Jack had seen far too many times to count. One he had recognised immediately. 

Oh no.

Robby arching a brow at the sight. 

Whilst the others watch in confusion, completely left in the dark as to what was happening. Never had Park shown such interest in a patient. 

Before Jack could stop you, your arm had reached up. 

Your finger pressing against Brendon’s nose.

As you booped him. 

You had fucking booped Shark’s nose. 

Everyone held their breaths, waiting for his reaction, waiting to see what would happen. 

The look on Brendon’s face was one of blinking shock. 

Whilst you bore a delighted grin. 

“What the fu–” he had grumbled out. 

Until you had booped his nose again, his hand catching your wrist. Firm but not harshly. 

“What are you doing?” he raises a brow as he looks to you, eyes narrowed. 

Whilst Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“I read somewhere that sharks back down if you bump them on the nose,” you had explained, a small laugh escaping you before forming into a harsh cough.  

Instead of a growling rage. Instead of a harsh retort. 

The whole room watched as Shark, PTMC’s fiercest orthopedic surgeon. The very man that could make medical students and interns cry with a simple click of his tongue. 

Any harshness had been bitten back, as he instead crouched by your side, grasping your free hand. 

Here he was. 

Softening. 

“Are you ok?” he asks you, softly. 

“I will be if you let anyone here do their job,” you squeeze both of their hands, eyes moving to glance between them both. 

“It’s not my first broken leg, and you know it,” you looked at Brendon.  

He remarks, “Don’t blame me for worrying over you”

Your hand slipped from his, as you pinched his cheek, “I know you’re just being a good brother” 

Brother.

The word travelled through to the ears of those nearby. Eyes widening in shock. As if today couldn’t have brought any more surprises. 

“As the break is clean and transverse, surgery isn't necessary,” someone had announced. “It’ll likely be a cast for several months to allow it to heal”  

You sigh. 

Whilst you had been putting on a brave face you had a genuine feeling of relief rush through you. No surgery was a good sign.  

Even if you were feeling good now. Anything could happen. 

“I love you both, a lot–” you had begun to say. 

Jack clenched his jaw, shaking his head, “Don’t speak like that” 

You send him a look, “I’m just saying I love you”

“That tone says something else,” his words hang between you. 

“I love you too,” he leans down to press a kiss to the side of your head. 

Robby lets out a chuckle as he catches a glimpse of outside the trauma room. Knowing that this incident had added fuel to the flames, gossip spread like wildfire. 

Just outside of the trauma room, where you laid, Brendon on one side, as Jack stood on the opposite. 

The second it became clear that you weren’t dying. 

That you were in the clear. 

The second everyone realized your injuries amounted to a cast, a handful of bruises, and a mandatory period of sitting still that would undoubtedly drive you insane—

The gossip began.

Dana bit back a grin as she overheard the murmurs that passed through. This was something that was definitely going to stick around. 

“Well this explains it.” Santos said arms folded over her chest. 

Whitaker raised a brow, “Explains what?” 

She elbows him as though it were obvious, “Explains why Abbot and Shark get along”

“They’re obviously playing civil for her sake,” Princess comments, nodding in agreement. “Seems like Mrs Abbot was once Miss Park” 

“They’re always acting like this” Ellis stated as she came up to check up on charts. 

“Did you know?” 

Ellis stared at them confused. “You didn’t?” her eyes scanning those before her. The dayshifters who had gotten caught up once more with overtime. 

And those who simply didn’t want to leave until they knew you were ok. 

“No,” Santos exclaimed. 

Javadi shook her head, “Had no idea” 

“Why would we know that?” 

Their shock had only worsened once Mel joined the conversation. “What’s everyone talking about?” 

“Y/N, Abbot’s wife, the firefighter” Mohan began to explain.

“Yeah?” 

“She’s Park’s sister”

“Oh,” Mel said. 

“Oh?” Santos raised her brow. 

She tilted her head, brows furrowing, “I thought everyone knew that?” her eyes glanced around at those standing there. Meeting Ellis’ eye who nods, believing the same thing. 

“How did you know this?” 

“Dr Abbot mentioned it,” Mel explained. It was in passing and so small, to the point that Mel didn’t think anything more of it. 

“Of course he did,” Javadi sighed. 

Questions brewing in their mind. Their thoughts run wild. 

Questions about what it was like having Park as a brother? 

What was it like having Park as a brother in law? 

How did Abbot not cower when he realised? 

Did Park give an overprotective brother talk? 

Everything and anything that came to mind. 

They would simply have to wait for their questions to be answered just until you were feeling better. 

Your hand not once leaving Jack’s as he stood by your side. Soothing you and consoling you. 

The worry that had pent up within him now finally was able to settle. 

You were safe. 

That was all that mattered to him, and to Brendon. 

At least now everyone could say that one thing was for sure. 

While a shark might not have taken Jack’s leg. 

It was true. 

That a shark’s sister had taken his heart.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed. I just loved the idea of Jack using the excuse of a shark biting his leg off, only to tease his brother in law Brendon. Both finding a middle ground when it came to joking about the other. and I totally picture most of the night are already in the know about your relation to Shark as well as Mel!! catching everyone else off guard about it. Just know that no one can look at Abbot or Park the same after this interaction haha Let me know what you thought ✨

There will be more to come for the Shiver Collection!! Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist ♥️

Next up will feature Mateo Diaz x Reader: Tricky Fish

Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕 For more Jack Abbot Works check out my series below! Such as my Dr Jack Abbot x Reader Who Would've Thought series here💖 Or my fic Based on Waitress the Musical, Dr Jack Abbot x Waitress!Reader Sugar, Butter, Flour series 🥧 Or for a lil bit of hurt with eventual comfort check out Jack and the reader create a bond through being widowers, I Know You're Hurting series Or check out my overall Masterlist here

Maybe it was because you were initially withdrawn before starting med school, before being matched, but you were an observer more than anything else. Didn’t talk much apart from answering questions or asking them–preferring to keep your personal life to yourself despite the two other girls that started residency at the same time as you, because there were things co-workers simply did not need to know. That reservation earned you quite a few props when you were still a student, your residents and supervisors always claiming you were a joy to work with when really you just shut up and got the job done instead of making inquiries about every little thing. You weren’t there to make friends; you were there to learn how to save people. Talking someone’s ear off wasn’t going to do that. Learning favorite foods and preferred activities when off the clock wasn’t going to teach you how to handle peripheral nerves to address trauma and relieve chronic pain. 

There was no interest on your side of things, so you tried not to take it personally when people in the department joked about your constant RBF. You had to remind yourself you didn’t know these people really, and they didn’t know you. That they were just getting caught up in their own minds, and what they perceived, maybe because of that superiority complex that would apparently sink its claws into you eventually. 

But then, also, that was you assuming, not reading facts, which is what others did with you, and maybe that was why you didn’t get involved: people were too complicated.

Tensions could heighten in the operating room, with an individual’s life obviously on the line, but it also gave people too much time to talk. Which you didn’t necessarily hate, but it was like an itch on your foot that you could never really get–persistent and lingering with just enough presence to be agitating. It was off-topic and distracting for others, more specifically you, and it wasn’t something you understood.

Which was one of the reasons you actually liked the ER. There was never enough time for people to find tangents or philosophicals to go off on. It was simple statistics and facts, more often than not, the usual pattern of: new case, assessment, diagnosis, and treatment. You had to give credit that there was normally at least one thing that went wrong, but usually the only words exchanged were those of finding and verdict, everyone being so focused on the rapid influx of patients and things to do that there were no spare moments to discuss upcoming vacations or what everyone was having for dinner.

The people were erratic, but the environment was one you felt like you could thrive in.

And you thought you did a good job whenever you were called down. With the cases and the staff, even if you received lingering glances that you chalked up to your stoicism. But you weren’t mean. Straightforward, sure, but you never gave out playful insults like Garcia from general surgery or chewed newer residents out for mistakes like Baker from cardiology. That had to be something worth noticing. It wasn’t like you were down in the ED every day. Plus, not that many people cared enough to notice little things anyway. 

At least, not until Mel.

The first time you met her, it wasn’t for the case you’d been paged for. But she’d still come up to you after you’d exited the trauma bay, ripping off the blue latex gloves and dropping them into the trash, rubbing hand sanitizer over your skin as she’d sped past you. Basically a blur to your eyes before she stopped, shoes squeaking on the tile before she’d whipped her head back around, braid following the movement. 

Awkwardly, you could still remember the way you slowly moved, fingers still clasped as your brows furrowed and lips pressed together. Her eyes had flicked around behind her glasses almost as quickly as her limbs were apparently capable of moving, like you were some kind of spectacle, intrigue clear on her face. Her hands hovered gauchely by her hips as the corners of her mouth finally ticked up, making the corners of her eyes crinkle in the sweetest way that strangely made something in your chest squeeze.

“Hi,” she’d started, fully turning to face you. “We haven’t met yet. What’s your name?”

It had been her first day at the PTMC. She’d told you she was trying to meet and remember every single person, every new face that she saw in the ED. She was intense the first time you met her, in the way sunlight could be too bright sometimes, and you felt like any longer than half an hour with her would require you to curl up in your room, alone, for double that. You could appreciate the effort, though. Especially when transitioning to such a chaotic place.

So, you’d given her a half smile and your name, accompanied by a brief, ‘Good luck.’

And you’d seen her later that evening after the absolute disaster of PittFest, shuffling through the staff parking lot with her hands tucked into her pockets. You weren’t sure what had compelled you to approach her, taking part of your habit that you needed to break where you would near someone and remain close until they noticed you first. Mel didn’t seem to care, though. It was like part of her had dulled, a complete contrast from what you’d seen that morning, and strangely, it was the first time you found yourself concerning over someone’s life outside of Pittsburgh Mercy. 

You’d given her your number if she needed anything.

She texted you the next day, telling you that things went much better than yesterday’s meltdown. Even if you hadn’t specifically asked for it. It was like she saw right through your front to that piece of your mind that was caught on her, catching itself up with worry, and identified that, maybe, it could morph into something more if she was just persistent enough.

But even a week later, with text message threads plaguing both of your phones, you still hadn’t worked with her. Somehow, your curiosity about her remained.

The ED is clearly short-staffed, more than usual, when you arrive, elevator doors sliding open to reveal the long white hallways that stem from the central nurse’s station. They’re lined with spare gurneys that contain patients who are more often than not sleeping. When some try to stop you as you pass, you pay them no mind, pretending like their words are too quiet for you to pick up on as you fix your scrub cap–one you’d received from the resident in your department that had gotten you for Secret Santa the previous year, a dark plum with doodles of moons and stars over the fabric.

“Well. Look who finally decided to rejoin polite society.” 

You don’t bother to hide your eye roll at Garcia’s remark, shrugging on the surgical gown with a sloppy knot before reaching for a pair of gloves. Polite was not a select word for her. “What’ve we got?” you venture instead, glancing over to Robby as you round up to the patient’s head. A man, balding thankfully, so at least you wouldn’t have to deal with hair.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the man nod, eyes directed elsewhere. When you follow his gaze, your eyes meet Mel’s. The expression that flickers across her face is akin to the stutter that occurs in your chest. Eyes that flutter before widening as her mouth opens for a split second, with her lips pressing back together when she swallows. The lighting is harsh, but beneath her dirty-blonde strands pulled back into that braid she’s so fond of, you think the tips of her ears turn pink. You look away quickly, back to the patient. 

“29-year-old male that took a fall doing household work off a ladder,” she rambles off hastily after her pause, shifting closer to you to the point where you can feel her presence on your right side. Hovering. Something warm and unfamiliar to you that you would usually push away from. “There’s a depressed skull fracture sunken 8 millimeters actively pressing into brain tissue, according to CT and the neurological exam. Minor CSF leak out of the wound–”

“Alright,” you say softly with a tiny nod, mind already moving miles a minute as you shift your front towards hers to let Mel a bit closer to you. “We’re gonna elevate the bone.” She doesn’t look at you despite this being the closest you’ve ever been. You don’t pick up any kind of scent on her, but you notice the way her tongue keeps darting out to wet her lips. The work of her throat as she swallows and the tiny freckle under her right eye. “Sound familiar?”

Mel’s brows raise a bit, but she still nods, movement of her hands jerky as she lifts them–that same speedy pace you’d first seen her with. Around the two of you, a few of the nurses bustle through the trauma bay, prepping the tray of materials you would need. Your focus stays on her, though–the increased rate of breathing, how her eyes keep darting around, the slight tremor in her hands as you hand her the scalpel, your other hand indicating where to cut over the scalp with your pinky. 

“Everything okay?” you ask her softly as she makes the incision, perfectly curving the blade around the injury site as she lets out a small breath from her mouth. 

Her work is steady. Her hands move swiftly with a kind of assuredness her face seems to lack as she keeps her eyes glued to the patient. “Mhm,” she hums, setting the scalpel down. 

“Okay,” you say slowly, eyes lingering on her face before one of your hands moves to grip her knuckles with your fingers. You feel her body stiffen next to you, but there’s no resistance as you guide her to pull the scalp flap back. “Fractured bone wedges tightly together, so you’re gonna make a burr hole right next to the fracture,” you trail off as you let go of her, leaving her hand right where she should work as you retrieve the surgical drill. “You’re doing good, but I’m right here if you need anything.”

A muscle in her throat flexes, her mouth turning down at the corners as her eyes flutter. Still, it’s like the rest of her body is disconnected from whatever’s going on in her own mind as she makes the small hole, earning another mumble of approval from you. 

“Good,” you whisper, leaning a little closer to her as you look over the spot. “Alright, grab that elevator next to you,” you instruct, not paying mind to how she jolts to follow the direction, coming to assume that’s simply how she works. It went along with her normal movements, and as long as she capably finished the trauma, you would be satisfied. 

Satisfied from watching her complete the work by herself, but you find yourself reaching for her hand again. Her bicep hovers near your chest, your chin almost on her shoulder as you help her ease the tool to use the upward leverage against the depressed fragments. “Just… gentle pressure– Like that, yup.”

“Do I have to hold it?” Mel asks, voice a little airy as you watch her work. Her fingers flexing beneath the gloves, your eyes glued to the way they curl and how her brows furrow as she concentrates. 

“No,” you mumble as her honey colored eyes finally flit briefly to yours. Something in your knees weakens as you fight to not let your gaze fall to her mouth. “I’ll suture the dura mater and then keep the fragments together with tiny biocompatible plates and screws– Look back down, you’re doing great.”

“Sorry,” Mel breathes, jaw clenching as she eases the last piece back into place before slowly removing the instrument and looking back to you.

“Good job,” you say with a nod of approval before taking her place to begin your suturing. Mel remains close by you, close enough that if you concentrated enough on her, you could almost imagine the soft puffs of air from her breathing brushing over your neck. “It’s like doing a puzzle,” you continue, feeling like you need to fill the sudden quiet apart from the gentle beeping of monitors.

When you glance up, the weight of eyes from both Robby and Garcia has something bristling inside of you. Garcia’s smirking a little, arms folded over her stomach with a kind of smug expression on her face, and Robby is just blatantly staring.

“Oh,” Mel utters, but you sense the way her eyes never leave your profile. “I don’t like doing those kinds of things.”

You glance at her before looking back down to make another suture. “Detail-oriented things?” 

She shakes her head, and you see the corners of her mouth lift out of the corner of your eye. “Tiny things? They kind of freak me out, I don’t know.”

A small hum leaves you as you tie off the stitch, “Which is why… you’re down here.” You return her smile with a brief lift of your own lips before getting started on securing the bones. “You guys can go,” you add, along with an undisguised glare in Garcia’s direction.

“I didn’t say anything,” she says, lifting her hands in mock surrender with that stupid grin still on her mouth. Your eyes track her as she exits the trauma bay before flicking back over to Robby, who copies her action of showing you his palms, but with an added shake of his head, before he’s directed out of the bay as well.

With a tiny huff, you return to your work. Mel doesn’t move.

Still hovering, still watching. 

Gradually, you tilt your chin to look at her again, her own eyes instantly shooting up to the ceiling like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

“Mel,” you say softly, watching as her eyebrows twitch up when her eyes lock with yours again. “You did good.”

“Thank you,” she chirps, her hands coming together in front of her chest so she can fidget with her fingers. “This is my first neurosurgery case here,” she continues as your hands remain busy with the screws over the final fracture piece. “Which is sort of alarming since the parts of the brain are so intricate, so it’s relieving that it was a skull fracture– Not that– Not that skull fractures are good, but–” 

She lets out a long sigh before falling silent. 

“But it was less pressure,” you finish for her, the relief of your understanding evident on her face as her shoulders seem to relax, her hands dropping to hand in front of her. 

“Yes,” she confirms. Then, quieter, “And I’m glad it was you that assisted."

That annoying pitter-patter of your heart resounds in your chest again. You would have to get that checked out. You clear your throat as you finish, finally stepping back and away from her. “Rinse that with saline and close the incision with surgical staples,” you say, tone soft and a little short as a kind of nervousness surges through you. 

You had to get out before you said something stupidly soft.

“Thank you!” Mel calls as you rip your gloves and PPE off, running your freed hand over your forehead before pushing one of the doors open without another word. The ER hasn’t slowed, it never will, but it’s oddly easier to breathe out here. A slow sigh is pushed from your lips as you harshly shove your hand under the dispenser for hand sanitizer, the liquid splattering a little when you clap your hands together.

“You guys are sweet–”

“Shut up,” you mumble, focusing on rubbing the alcohol into your knuckles and between your fingers as Garcia falls into step beside you.

She doesn’t get the message. Or, no, she definitely does, she just ignores it for the opportunity to tease.

“She was nervous ‘cause you were touching her, y’know,” Garcia remarks, snark in her tone, and that grin on her mouth was going to drive you back up to your department, never to return if she was anywhere in the vicinity. “Mel doesn’t struggle with nervousness during procedures.”

“She did well,” you offer quietly. 

Garcia scoffs, “Considering you were talking her through it, she did amazing.” You purse your lips together, restraining from snapping at her as your hands fall to your sides, the elevator thankfully coming into view as you cringe internally. “Question–”

“Don’t want it.”

“–Do you normally talk that much to people who have a praise kink?”

Heat spreads over your face, but you keep your chin up. Eyes forward. “Maybe I just don’t like talking to you,” you grumble as you finally reach the elevator.