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   chief of surgery & chief of staff.    an embellishment to her collection of titles.    funny how    only  a  few  years  ago  that  she  would’ve  fought  tooth  and  nail for it… yet, now it sits    comfortably atop the embroidery of her coat.       work keeps her busy,  her eyes drawn to    everything and anything that she could find.    fingers wrapped delicately around the mug    in her hands, spectacles donned at the tip of her nose.   she doesn’t need it anymore. not    since  she’s gotten LASIK after burning and damaging her eyes through the venue of grief    striking her at every corner. yet, it provides comfort just like the child she’s always wanted    and now has.    just like the ways how sometimes she still labours about the events of her    past.    painful hisses escapes her lips, knocking her out of her trance as the hot matcha    latte  scalds her bare skin – how ironic that the protocol her residents are meant to follow    are broken by her on the constant basis by her dressed in skirts and free flowing dresses. 

           “ow ow! ah, fuck, that was… nine hundred dollars.” 

   by that she is referring to her heels,  which, ironically is the source of her exposure to the     hopefully minor case of burn.

           “someone get me a cold compress. now!”

        “oh crap.”

   give it two seconds before mini skirt’s yelling catches kendra’s attention. her sleeves    are soaked, but the unfortunate doctor before her seemed to bear the greatest brunt    of this  travesty,  with  the  demands  she  flings out  as though she owned the damn     place. she really should  help,  but  she also should run. the pit she’s dug herself into     was big enough as it is. panic  rises  into   her  throat, and she makes the quick shot     decision to help instead of flee. damn her weakness for the  weak. 

       “shit i’m sorry. i can’t buy you  new shoes but i’ll owe ya a coffee, yeah?”

       "dawson! behind you!”

   firefighters drunk off too many beers after a good shift tended to lift spirits and    mischief. shay may  not be sober, but at  least she had another thirty six hours     to sleep off the copius amount of tequila  they  were buying her. a big save, no    casualties-- those were hard to come by. unstable footing throws   the  blonde     into the back of her partner: dark   jacket,  skinny  jeans,  she  was  absolutely     certain that the woman she  had  just  shoulder checked into oblivion was her    partner in medical crime. but as bodies collided, a flash rip of sobriety knocks    sense   into her, and  though the woman may be wearing a jacket that dawson    owned,   she    definitely  wasn’t  dawson.  f u c k.  a  cacophony   of  howling     laughter erupts from behind them.

      “heya doc, i’m shay,  firehouse  paramedic. brought a little girl in here        last night. smoke inhalation, no parents. just wanted to check in, see        if she’s doing okay?”

   she recognizes his name from the attending sheet she peeked at earlier today,     just to catch a glimpse of what her patients  had   in store for them. she’s only    just gotten  off  her  shift  earlier in the morning, but the little girl hadn’t yet left     her mind. fingers brush  against his  elbow in attempt to catch his attention.

thanks for the warm welcome guys, but it’s time for us to go start our periods. //                                                  indep. selective leslie elizabeth shay, chicago fire.