Jack Abbot had meticulous precision. Whether that be in regard to his reputable action as a decorated veteran who performed several Cricothyrotomies in perilous conditions with only his fingertips to guide him to saving a life in the dark. Or, how he could predict the ceiling ledge of the PTMC building, underneath his left foot without such as a glance at the hair raising drop to concrete beneath him. 

(Sometimes he imagined his problems would be solved midway to the bottom.) 

Either way, he was a well-esteemed asset to the Emergency Department—informally known as the Pitt—with his keen eye and solid intuition. 

These characteristics, that thrived in professional conditions, and were at the centre of Jack Abbot's DNA, also spilled over the rim into a more personal manner when it came to the first day that the attending Night Shift physician had managed to pinpoint you amongst the sea of white gowns; sterile gloves and forlorn expressions that fitted to the dreadful circumstances. 

You. A resident finding your footing on your first day at the PTMC, stood next to Dr. Samira Mohan like part of her shadow. There was a sort of deer-caught-in-the-headlights aspect of your body language that had caught Jack Abbot's attention from the minute Dr. Robby rounded the team like cattle for slaughter. 

Mass-casualty at Pittfest. Number of casualties unknown, potential of multiple DOA's that were to be pushed into Pedes with a black and white wristband slapped on their arm. The jarring words reached you in a state of shock, eyes widened as you listened to the instructions on a scenario that hadn't crossed your mind to experience on your first residential day at the Pitt.

Jack's eyes flitted toward you between the back and forth of him and Robby articulating and condensing the next couple of gruelling hours in one speech. Beneath the white clinical lighting reflecting off of the pristine—for the meantime—sheet vinyl floor, Abbot noticed the skin beneath your eye; not enough to diagnose, but enough to take note, compartmentalise and focus on the task at hand.

Save lives. (Repress the instincts to stare at you longer to relinquish the curiosity buzzing in his brain.)  

What was he going to do with you? 

Then the son of a bitch Robinavitch handed you your fate when he called Dr. Samira Mohan and you to assist in the Red Zone.

You faltered, hands wrung with a steep incline mountain of self-doubt amongst big leagues of the ED. Samira gave you a side-glance of reassurance, and you attempted reciprocate the niceties with one of the loveliest doctors you've come across; but it was lacklustre and obsolete despite your attempt to feign togetherness. 

As the two men wrapped up their deliverance on the guide to get through the consequences of a mass-shooting, the team dispersed into their respective zones and you found yourself assisting Dr. Jack Abbot into his gown. 

He gave you a simple nod, back turned to allow you the opportunity to tie similar knots in the strings to the knots cramping your stomach with foreboding anxiety. 

“First day?” Jack questioned in a monotonous tone, his own hands coming to fix the fabric around his body. He turned to you and you affirmed with a nod. “Good old trial by fire.”

You nodded again, “I need the hands on experience.” You paused in sudden regret, “Not that—This isn't what I needed to happen to get that.”

“Heard.” Jack chuckled as far as the dire situation allowed him.

As you stood close by, talking closely with Mohan about the Red Zone, Jack pulled his own sterile gloves to his wrists, lips pulled into a thin line as he watched you momentarily. The patch of skin next to your eye was in his direct line of sight, and he was able to conclude that you were sporting a loss of pigmentation in your skin. 

He hadn't met anyone in his lifetime—so far—that had vitiligo. But, September 5th seemed to be pulling all of the stops to make it a memorable one. 

In simpler terms: Jack thought you were a sight for traumatised eyes and the vitiligo had doubled that burning feeling in his chest. He was just overcomplicating things. Drawing attention to a singular—but quietly beautiful—part of you so he didn't linger on the entirety of your narcotic being.

Unique. Undoubtably irritating that you were able to drag his attention south from such a grave scenario about to coat the floor in bloodshed. You were pretty. In the red tape kind of way, that Gloria Underwood would be sure to wrap around Jack Abbot's neck for ogling at a resident in training.

(It wouldn't be the first time he hadn't abided by her rules. Apparently not the last either.)  

At the other side of this newfound spectrum of piqued of intrigue, stood you, gloves maybe a smidge too big for your fingers, head on a swivel as gurneys and wheelchairs sped past you toward the sliding doors of the Ambulance Bay. Subtlety came as a natural trait to you, easy to disguise the fleeting glances toward one of your Senior Attending physicians that you had a brief forty-second encounter between a gown and low tones. 

Dr. Abbot was handsome from the minimal tracking of his facial attributes you managed to digest in the flurry of chaos. Weathered type of features, deepened frown lines presumably down to the tragedies he had witnessed firsthand that weighed heavy on his back. To be shallow, beneath the gown and black scrubs, he looked sturdy with noticeable sized biceps; in which you had pinched the soft flesh of your palm to ground yourself to your surroundings. 

You allowed yourself the opportunity to catch a glimpse of him again—as your attention would be soon diverted—and found the salt and pepper haired male already staring in your direction. In an attempt to feign casualness, you whipped your head back to face in front of you, neck aching from the sheer force in which you turned to pay attention to Samira. 

The sterile gloves on Mohan's hands snapped to her wrist with a soft thwack. “Everything will be okay. Just follow our lead, and ask questions. Dr. Robby clearly has a lot of trust in you to put you in the Red Zone, right?” 

“Right.” You nodded with vigour. 

Samira warmed her facial features up, “We'll get through this.”

Without need of a response, the ambulance wails that pierced through the sliding doors answered for you. Heart spiked, your fingers curled at the sight of the victims being efficiently wheeled in on gurneys and placed in their respective zones to receive treatment that would differentiate the decision between life or death for them. 

And within fifteen minutes, you spent half your time silently chastising Dr. Samira for her serene outlook on life, because with two DOA's that you had assisted wheeling into Pedes, and a close third in Trauma One; part of you questioned if you were going to make it through this nightmare. 

And, even if you did, there was a small percentage of you that never wanted to walk into the PTMC building again. 

That thought stayed at the forefront of your mind, nestled amongst the knowledge needed in order to treat the patient that laid coated in congealed blood on the gurney. With Dr. Robinavitch to across from you and Dr. Abbot to your left, there was little work required from you aside from doing as you were told by your Attendings, and not getting in the way of their highly esteemed work. 

Hands raised upward to your chest, your eyes flitted to Nurse Jesse who had been performing compressions upon the patient's arrival, and then to Dr. Robinavitch who had been barking orders with a stale expression on his face.

The copper smell that followed the aroma of someone on the precipice of death had your head feel like it had been submerged under cold water. Light suddenly obnoxiously bright, you missed Dr. Robby's instruction appointed toward you.

Any second longer and Robby may have felt like grabbing you by the scruff of your neck to throw you back into reality. You two hadn't hit it off as you had initially held out hope for. Two personalities clashed. From what you had seen during the hours of work spent in his company, he seemed to have flaws that highlighted in his outward favouritism toward your male counterparts. 

Plus, there was a bad taste left in your mouth the first time he called Dr. Samira Mohan: ‘Slow-Mo.’

Jack Abbot had seen the thin film of daze across your features when you re-entered Trauma One after wheeling the second DOA into Pedes. Then, when you missed Robby's concise instruction to take over from Nurse Jesse, well, it didn't take rocket science to conclude that you were having an outer-body experience. 

So, he shoulder-checked you. It was clean. Brief. Less on the aggressive side and more on the, ‘Hey. We need you in here.’ side. 

It was enough to bring you back into the room with a sharp turn of your head to look at him. Wide-eyed, chest stuttered from your erratic breathing. Jack gave you as much as a sympathetic smile as he could without it being borderline affectionate, before he gave a nod with his eyes speaking for him. 

“You.” Dr. Robby repeated for a second time. “Take over compressions from Nurse Jesse. Now.”

You flew into action. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry unless you missed the boat on saving the patient.” Dr. Robby mumbled cruelly as you resumed compressions on the patient. Browns eyes flickered to where Jack stood behind you, the male’s brows pinched in judgement at Robby's lack of professionalism. He chose to ignore it. “Pause compressions—” Both he and Abbot searched for a pulse. They both shook their heads, “—Asystole. Alright. I think we are done here. Pedes.” 

The gurney was wheeled out of the room before your hands fully left the man's chest. 

That familiar nausea returned to your stomach. Foreboding in its presence as you stared at the door in which the deceased patient had been taken out of. Your hands coated in his blood, you blinked more times than usual, head tilted backward to search for some extra oxygen to fill your lungs; and to let you just breathe. 

“Hey. Eyes on me.” Jack Abbot spoke to you, and you only. And then, he was removing your gloves for you. “Go take a breather in the Ambulance Bay. Five minutes tops. I'll come get you.”

You faltered, “I can't—I'm fine.”

“No—” Jack started, tossing your gloves into the biohazard bin, “—You're not.” He held the door open for you with a hint of a smirk, “I'll hold the fort down whilst you're gone. I promise.”

You then found the air you were so desperately searching for out in the Ambulance Bay. Albeit, the last place to find solace with bodies thrown onto gurneys, the siren wails replaced with human ones, Dr. Shen and Dr. Ellis—that you had a brief introduction to—were elbow deep in the influx of vehicles queued down the road with victims of the PittFest shooting. 

Dr. Ellis had taken one look at your face and prevented an order to assist with the casualties rather than the game you were playing of finding your own pulse point. 

In and out. In and out. 

(You were almost reduced to counting five things you could see.) 

“Five minutes, trooper.” Jack called from the sliding doors, orange high-vis making him even more visible than he already was to you. He limped to meet you halfway. 

A somewhat sarcastic laugh escaped your tight chest. “Get out of jail free card?”

Jack frowned with a shrug. “Nope.” His eyes drifted toward your knuckles and back up to your face. He swallowed down the warmth he felt. “Just a patient with a nasty gunshot wound to the leg. Your name written all over it.” 

You grimaced. As if it wasn't part and parcel of the career path you had picked. 

And whilst you fought the sour taste in your mouth, the faint copper scent still latched onto the hair follicles in your nostrils, Abbot had rounded you to tie the fresh gown you wore, after you stripped yourself of the old one; to rid the stained memory of your first patient coding. 

As he tied, he mumbled, “You're here for a reason—” You turned once he gently patted your bicep, “—No amount of compressions could have saved him. Don't carry that weight on your shoulders...” His words of encouragement tailed off into a badly timed joke, “Until you're at home. Alone. With your thoughts.” 

“Thanks.” You dragged a hand down your face. 

Jack watched you, more so the hand that travelled down your face with scattered patches of lighter skin on your knuckles. Red tape. Red tape and Gloria Underwood. “My therapist says I have a way with words.” He said sardonically. 

Can you send them my way after this? Is the first retort that crossed your mind, something that would escape your lips with a sad excuse for a laugh. Then it dawned on you, that you had little knowledge of Dr. Jack Abbot aside from the snippets of his movement throughout the Red Zone, and therefore, decided against potentially opening a can of worms with another Senior Attending; as your odds with Dr. Robby weren’t looking too hot for the time being.

You condensed all your thoughts into the simple action of wringing your hands nervously. The soles of your shoes slippery against the unattended pool of blood, Abbot found himself cradling your elbow as you waded through the catastrophic scenes of one man’s unresolved and internalised problems.

Jack flitted his eyes from you to the gurneys lined up in the Red Zone—your head a million miles away from where it needed to be. Probably stuck in the sand, on an empty beach with zero dead patients.

“What’s your favourite meal of the day?”

Now that was a poorly timed icebreaker, if you had ever heard one. It had the element of surprise that snatched you back up into the jaws of the PTMC, but you were left gawking at the Senior Attending for his ability to think about his stomach with the abundance of blood and brain matter scattered across the floor. 

Jack was nonchalant when he looked to you for your answer, and you suddenly became envious his lack of fear. 

“Why are you asking me that?” You asked with disbelief laced through the question. 

Jack shrugged, “In baseball, they would refer to that as out of left field.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, to relieve pressure, “It’s meant to bring the element of surprise. Get you out of your head with something unrelated to the current circumstances.” Jack looked you up and down, “Did it work?” 

“I guess it did.” 

“Cool. Mohan is working on your patient with Perlah, but I need her for this officer with a bullet entry wound to the face.” Jack nudged you with a hand to your back, toward where Mohan was attending the unconscious female patient assigned to you, with a fine-tooth comb style of care. “You’ve got this.” 

Feet stuttered, you approached Mohan and Perlah with your fingers curled into the palms of your hands. It was Perlah that redirected her attention first, coated in a layer of a mix of patients blood, the small smile that spread across her face failed to reach her eyes. 

Being amongst the result of a mass-shooting allowed you to quickly develop a sixth sense, and you could practically smell the fear radiating off of Perlah; her trust that the patient would pull through dwindling by the minute. 

Samira raised her head, slick with sweat, strands of hair curled around her face. 

“You OK?” She asked in that sweet, caring nature that didn’t come from experience. It was deeply embedded in her DNA.

When you nodded, she launched into the finer details of the patient’s circumstances, the foreboding black and white band taunting you from the corner of your eye as she spoke. Gunshot wound to one of the several main arteries in the leg. Severe amount of blood loss. Do what you can to save her. 

“I’ll be back to help when I can.” Is the words that Dr. Mohan left you with. Something you highly doubted considering the magnitude of victims being wheeled from every angle into the Red Zone.

Despite the internalised panic—because that’s what a good, aspiring doctor could do. Internalise—you turned to Perlah, and slowly realised that you were the one to call the shots over the woman’s life. 

You’ve got this.

“OK, Perlah—” You nodded, and breathed. Not in unison, but enough to get the cogs turning, “—Mohan mentioned junctional bleeding from the femoral vessels. Non-responsive…” 

Perlah nodded, “She sustained systolic blood pressure of <70mmHg despite fluid resuscitation.” 

“Refractory shock. Shit, alright—Uh…” You craned your neck to see Abbot, Mohan and Robby huddled over the police officer. You spoke to Perlah as you peered over at them, “This lady needs a REBOA. I need an Attending, but they’re all fucking busy right now.” 

“We’re going to lose her if we don’t do something.” 

That was something that you were becoming acutely aware of, and despite all Attendings wrapped up in the other lives that had been laid on a thready line from the shooting, you knew that a REBOA without conferring with one of them would be met with some grave consequences. 

However, with three deceased patients linked to you, there was a surge of reluctance to let another fall under that category. You had studied the art of a REBOA multiple times, reciting extensive experts of it with your eyes closed; this was the part where you just…acted the words out on a human with beating heart. 

With a simple ‘fuck it’ and a proud reaction from Perlah, you dove head first into your first ever REBOA, without assistance over your shoulder. Any self-about—that you had an abundance of—was compartmentalised and would be addressed at a later time in the schedule as you worked against the blood loss of a woman that would go nameless for the foreseeable. Perlah had been with you the entire time with words of encouragement, never shedding any light on any premonitions that she had about it all going wrong.

Because, well, she didn’t think that way at all. 

So, when you initiated the inflation of the balloon at the tip of the catheter, and all signs pointed toward a successful procedure; the nurse couldn’t refrain from yanking you into a side-by-side hug that was weighted by an immense sense of pride. 

The red wristband was staying on. 

You dropped your head back with relief settling into your exhausted bones. The fleeting moment wafted away in an instant once Dr. Robby loosened himself up from assisting the police officer in order to do the rounds of each zone. 

“What is going on here?” Dr. Robinavitch's hoarse voice caught you off guard, body jolted as he stood behind you with his hands dawning a fresh pair of sterile gloves. His eyes flitted between you and the patient unconscious on the gurney, “I asked you a question.”

His sharpness caused disconcert as you fought back the intimidation felt. You swallowed hard, “I—” You hesitated under Robby's harsh glare, “—REBOA. But, there was no Senior Attending available at the time. The patient—” 

“Did anyone green light this?” Robby cut through your explanation with an additional question. 

Suddenly, you felt awfully small. Shoulders rounded, a nervous tendency flush against your back as you pressed your thumb to each finger over, and over. There wasn't many straws to grasp at. You had performed a REBOA on the basis of initiative despite your inner protest. With the atmosphere heightened, the room packed to the brim in what felt like a pressure cooker, and little time to take the road of 'wait and see'; you did what you saw fit to save a patient's life. 

A mother, a daughter, a sister or lone wolf. Whoever she was, the woman that had begun to grey with the loss of blood from the gunshot wound had you surge with urgency to ask for forgiveness, rather than loiter around for permission. 

(You refused to let another tally to your death toll strike you down four times on the same day.) 

When you hadn't answered—much as Dr. Robby had assumed—he began a malicious tangent of discipline amongst the bloodshed. His face reddened, he spoke through gritted teeth and you found yourself standing face to face with an aggressive wolf rather than the Chief Attending to the ED at the PTMC. 

You fought back the urge to make a point amidst his lecture. If it had been, as far as you knew, Dr. Langdon, or Dr. Whitaker, you feared his reaction would be much greater on the side of a docile, yet concerned, cat. 

Dr. Robby continued his attack, “Perhaps a more suitable job for you will be taking pictures of the victims in Pedes." He crossed his arms, head tilted to try encourage a bite of the bait, “Hm? Then I won't have to continuously look over my shoulder—”

"Robby." Another familiar voice cut through. Jack sauntered up, face in disbelief. "I gave the go ahead for the REBOA. Benefits outweighed the risks. She's clearly capable of performing one." 

Robby looked to you and then to Jack again. 

Jack eyed him up, “Relax, brother.” He persisted with his pinned gaze following Robby away from you and toward another patient, before he redirected it back to you. Jack leaned in, "You and Dr. Santos share the same fucking brain cell apparently. Don't do that again." 

You simply nodded with no further elaborations on your impulsive decision that saved a woman's life. 

From that point onward, you decided to take a backseat on making executive decisions without an Attending present. The decision led with frustrations as you bounced on the balls of your feet with impatience laced in your expression as you awaited for Mohan or Abbot—you gave Robby a wide birth—to assist you with a new patient that had just been wheeled in from the Ambulance Bay, with a red wristband slapped on their arm. 

No more treatment to be done alone. Despite the fact that you believed yourself to be entirely capable, you swallowed the hard pill that was your pride and left it to the hands of the doctors with years of experience against your shiny residency. 

The influx of victims began to dwindle down in the Red Zone, which you had been eternally grateful for on the basis that, the light at the end of the tunnel was much nearer than anticipated; and you wouldn't have to witness another human being in an unforgettable state near death pain. 

Once the dust settled, your adrenaline spike settled with it. 

The mirror in the women’s bathroom offered up an image of someone unrecognisable within your reflection. Eyes dragged downward with exhaustion from a tumultuous first shift at the PTMC, skin layered with a film of grime that was a morbid cocktail of sweat, blood and other fluids. You stared back at her with slow blinks as the realisation hit you like you had been tied to the tracks, awaiting the imminent strike of the train fast approaching. 

The heels of your palms that you had relentless scrubbed—at least—three layers off of, pressed into the sockets of your eyes before the tears of grief began to hopelessly shed. A sob wracked your frame when you inhaled, stomach churning at the images that flickered behind your closed lids; replaying each paled, unconscious face that you were unable to save from the sticky hands of death. 

Even with the uncelebrated success of the REBOA patient, you were left with the mental weight of a drag path in the form of empathy for the families that wouldn’t be able to celebrate the same instances for their loved ones beneath a white sheet. 

You were sure you would wallow in the gravity of the situation for years to come. 

Cool water splashed from the tap and onto your face, the door swung open and Mohan, in all her frazzled beauty, pinned it open with her body weight; a question readily available on the tip of her tongue. 

“Some of the guys are sharing beers.” She spoke as you turned to face her, droplets beaded on your skin. She mustered up the energy for a weak smile, “Come on. We can share one.” 

Mohan took you beneath her wing, her arm rested against the length of your shoulders as she tugged you into her side with some silent comfort, despite her own inner turmoil. She guided you out into the open air, the stars in the sky concealed by the light pollution of the hospital, and you both took the deepest inhales of fresh air; to truly appreciate the scent of nature without the undertones of death. 

Donnie chucked you a beer, and you tapped the underside, the side and top of the can prior to opening it—you always had to do it, because something told you it wouldn’t burst into a fizzy spray if you did. It stung your throat on the way down which reduced Donnie Donahue and Jack Abbot into breathy laughs as they aided their own beverages. 

The group engaged in surface level chitchat, before slowly picking themselves off to retreat to a comfortable bed and nightmares of the shit for the foreseeable. 

It eventually left you and Jack as the last two standing. 

After some deliberation of where to sit—across from him? On the floor?—you settled for the more friendly approach of taking up the space next to him on the bench he had resided on. 

Jack sort of gave you warm, lopsided smile when you spared a glance. 

“How was that for you?”

You brought the can to your lips, “Like an inescapable nightmare.” You took a sip, “You?”

“It was meant to be my day off.” Jack muttered toward the floor. He let himself sigh, “Dog days are yet to come.”

You weren’t so sure how to respond to that. So, you gave a polite acknowledgment in the form of a slow nod before your eyes became unfocused, dragging you by your ankles into the tail-end of the happenings at PittFest.

(To Jack, that just wouldn’t do.)

Jack stared at your side-profile, his thumb swept across the rim of his beer. He blinked slowly, like a docile cat before the words escaped past his teeth. 

"Can I ask about that?" You averted your thousand yard stare to Jack, confusion blanketed your expression. He smiled faintly and circled his own eye as a hint. 

The pads of your finger pressed to the lightened patch around your eye, "My vitiligo?" 

"Yeah."

Was there much to tell? Jack knew basic etiquette, not zeroing in on a feature of someone's appearance. It was textbook decency. But, if he brought faux innocence to the table whilst steering the conversation to the patch of skin around your eye, it would give him an excuse to openly stare without brandishing the title of a creep. 

"Oh, well—" You kissed your teeth, "COVID-19. Stress-induced. My immune system attacked my melanocytes." 

Jack hummed at the thought. His own can brought to his lips as he spoke, "It's pretty gnarly." 

"Gnarly?" You felt yourself laugh. A foreign concept in your body after a fifteen hour shift from the seventh layer of hell. 

"Beautiful." Jack corrected with the courage from the singe of beer that warmed his stomach. The corner of his lips quirked at the sight of you blinking in surprise. He added, "Is that forward enough?"

You weren't confident in a verbal answer, your mind blanketed by exhaustion and a light dusting of mild confusion. So, you swallowed your words, the tip of your tongue bitten between your teeth whilst your heart betrayed your calm exterior; your hand coming close to hide the loud thrum against your ribcage. 

Jack watched as you rubbed at your chest, his eyes settled on the scattered contrast of vitiligo on your knuckles as you subtly kneaded at your heart. Envisioning a future where he'd press his lips in a featherlight kiss that dusted across the very stepping stones of your knuckles. 

He redirected the conversation, "Do you like pancakes?"

There he went. Bringing it back to food.

"For breakfast?"

"I meant in for anytime of the day." Jack pulled his lips into a frown, "But, I can do that.

You tried to decipher his flirtatious choice of wording without diving headfirst into a pool of overthinking a common interaction.

You settled for a bog standard response. 

"I'm not opposed to eating pancakes, Dr. Abbot." You said his professional name so gently, Jack almost lost it to the wind. He looked up from his can to your face, his face softening in the angelic view. You were quick to add, "Do you like pancakes?"

Jack shrugged, "I do." And then he let out a deep sigh and reached for his prosthetic to refit. He grunted as he adjusted it, pant leg pulled down to conceal it, "I like them at any time of the day. Especially—" He stood from the bench, "—After a shitshow of a shift."

"Doesn't sound too bad." 

"Yeah. So let's go." 

You blinked, "Huh?" 

“Do you think he ever feels anything other than bitter resentment?” 

You peered over the monitor you had been using to compete in the catch up with Santos on your charting—something Dr. Al-Hashimi took great pride in addressing from time to time. Whitaker and Javadi had their elbows leant against the work station, whilst Santos pressed the heels of her palms into her eye sockets from the mild distraction caused by her peers. 

(Safe to say, you were winning the catch up game. Well, until your interest had piqued too.) 

Fingers paused on the keyboard, you awaited the conversation to strike up against after a pregnant pause. 

Whitaker hummed, “I think he just stares at a wall when he goes home.” 

Who were they talking about? You craned your neck to look into Trauma One, where—from your seated position—you could only make out a green fleece and rounded shoulders. 

“Dr. Robby?” You dove into the discussion head first. Three sets of eyes turned to the sound of your voice, and you managed to return the blank look on their faces. “Are you talking about Dr. Robby?”

It would make sense. You weren’t partial to the knowledge that Dr. Robby could hold an immense amount of resentment, and spend his spare time boring his eyes into the blank slate of a bedroom wall. There was a great depth of sadness behind those brown eyes and weathered features that would wrinkle in amusement any time you spoke.

Dr. Robby liked you. A breath of fresh air in an all-too-consuming atmosphere that often felt like the walls were closing in with no exit in sight. In spite of this, you weren’t immune to his wrath of a bad day and unaddressed mental health problems that he struggled to pin down. 

However, it didn’t entirely make sense for the three musketeers loitering at the work station, to be putting negative connotations on their nuanced Chief Attending; that often gave them the benefit of the doubt. 

Santos rubbed at her forehead, speaking lowly, “No. They’re talking about Park the Shark.” 

Now, that was a name that made you forget about the looming deadline of your charting. 

Park the Shark. The rather foreboding entity that bestowed his abrasive presence within the ED when he was called down from Orthopaedics to leer over a case. Broad shouldered with sharp facial features and an attitude that would silence a room rather than liven it up. Some would assign him to the adjective: arrogant. 

If you were playing the same crossword, you much preferred the noun: boyfriend. 

(Something that wasn’t common knowledge to the hub of gossip in the PTMC.)

Your smile grew wickedly. Nothing quite like hearing your boyfriend of five months and ten days catching strays whilst inspecting a broken femoral bone alongside Dr. Robby. 

“Oh—” You started, standing from your spot to join Whitaker and Javadi with your half drunken coffee in one hand. You nudged Whitaker to move up, “—I’m sure he’s a kitten beneath all of that mean facade.” 

“Coming from the person who always gives people the benefit of the doubt?” Javadi laid her eyes on you with a playful smile, “Yeah. Your opinion is invalid. Look where that landed you last time.” 

Javadi was referring to the dicey situation you landed yourself in with a flighty forty-year old man with a bad burn and enough pills in his bloodstream to hallucinate that you were a six-foot threat holding a knife designed for his jugular. You had taken the case with a pep in your step, and a broad smile—because you wanted to help. The same friendly smile and dash of naivety that got wiped clean off your face when the man lunged at you with the intention to block your windpipes on a more permanent basis. 

It took Donnie, Robby and Jesse—with a couple of fists to the back from Dana—to pry the guy off of you. 

You scrunched your nose up at the memory. “Low-blow, Dr. J.” You took a sip from your straw, eyes trained on the large surface area of your boyfriend’s back as he manoeuvred around the patient. 

Javadi spoke again, “Can you imagine him in a relationship?” 

Yes. Yes, you could! 

By all means, Brendon Park was nothing short of a grouch. Low-browed, body made up of ninety-nine percent brood, loathing things such as, his time being wasted, small talk; or long queues in traffic and in the stores on his rare day off.

The other one percent, though? All made for loving you.

When it came to you, Park the Shark—as he had been so graciously titled in the Pitt—was all softened edges and lack of authority in contrast to his razor-sharp reputation in the workplace. When Brendon Park was around you, doors would magically open, the caffeine addiction wouldn’t come with a small dent in your chequing account, and if you suddenly found the inspiration to invest in a herb garden at 9AM? Brendon Park conjured up a green-thumb and made it happen. 

He would press a soft kiss to the back of your hand at stoplights, power through four episodes back-to-back of Love Island, despite finding it the most mind numbing piece of garbage that was ever thrown on TV. He would find the right angles for semi-planned candid photos for your Instagram feed, with zero means of protest. He would sweat through a Pilates class after some light teasing from you, that someone with his stature couldn’t possibly make it through an entire session. (He did, but he wasn’t far from quitting.) One time, in between sharing a bad takeaway and a movie that you had pleaded to watch, Brendon tried out your LED face-mask that you had bought on a whim. 

Just because you asked him to. 

Let’s not even address what had happened behind a closed curtain and the aggressor of your attack, when Park had found out upstairs. 

Which, funnily enough, had been the pinnacle moment in where you began to realise how deep Park’s feelings ran for you.

1.) Because what business did an OR surgeon have with a man under the influence of narcotics and a bad burn on his forearm? And 2.) Because it hadn’t always been smooth sailing seas to the heart of the Shark hunting the shallow waters of the ER.

“You’re like a cockroach.” Park had stated with a yank of his latex glove. He had been brought down with Garcia, and quickly realised that he was surrounded by incompetent butchers, which only furthered his impatience when you approached him with the sunniest disposition and a mouthful of conversation for him.

It seemed that you were the only person in the entirety of the PTMC that would rush to the opportunity to speak to the infamous, Park the Shark. Your consistency was a little vexing, because Park didn’t exude the whole ‘please talk to me!’ vibe, in fact, the only other thing than work that he put effort into; was being closed off. 

(Didn’t mean he shut off the ability to recognise a visually astounding resident.) 

You placed a hand to your chest in faux-flattery, “Thank you, Park.” 

“It wasn’t a compliment.” 

Despite wanting to project a healthy amount of space between him and you, Park still made sure to hold the door open by his foot until you sauntered past him. You flashed him a mischievous grin in passing, “The symbolism of a cockroach is that they’re resilient. They thrive even in the most extreme environments.” 

With his palm held beneath the dispenser, Park didn’t spare you as much as a glance as he scoffed, rubbing the spit of sanitiser up to his wrists before stalking over to the stairs to retreat back into the confines of the OR. 

You had watched him go, calling out to him before he disappeared, “I’ll be ready with more animal facts for whenever you’re needed down here!” 

And, you did exactly that. 

Any snippet caught of Park the Shark lurking in the murky waters of the ED with a hardened expression and little time for pleasantries, you were there with useless facts on a vast array of animals. It started off vague, and then you thought it would be fitting to only present shark facts to the local grump. 

The first fact had been met with a brief look up and down in utter silence. The second time, you had matched his strides toward Trauma Two and uttered that capybaras made great companions to alligators which earned you a shake of the head, and a slight curl of his lip—something you would have missed, if you hadn’t been inspecting his facial expressions. The third, fourth and fifth time, Brendon Park could be considered a hypocrite. No apparent time for small talk, but now, he would find himself slowing his walk whenever you giddily rounded the work station to do your fair share of sugar talking. 

A man of few words spoke a great deal when it came to his actions. 

So, when Park the Shark idled up next to you with his hands braced against the edge of the countertop, and a thunderous face; anyone might have presumed you were about to receive an earful. 

(You hoped not. This was the day that, just hours prior, a patient had you in a chokehold.) 

“Female sharks have evolved to have skin that is three times thicker than male sharks.” Park uttered the fact to you, whilst his eyes softened remarkably under the intrusive lighting overhead. 

You blinked, not expecting him to partake in your adolescent game. “I—Uh…”

“All good?” He interjected. 

“Yeah…Yeah, I’m good.” You swallowed, cringing when the reminder of the assault struck a sharp pain down your throat. You smiled meekly.   

Park gave a curt nod, “It’s been dealt with.” And, then he knocked his knuckles against the surface top and parted through the sea of nurses and patients. 

You were left utterly bedazzled. 

Dana Evans, who stood close by and had no intentions of minding her business when she witnessed the lonesome Shark prowling about her ED, swimming up to one of the fresh-faced residents with all the suaveness he could muster from his cold exterior; simply let out an impressed chuckle, her hand coming to rest on your shoulder to give it a quick squeeze. 

You tilted your chin up to stare at the mother figure of the Pitt. 

“You did it, kid.” Her accent thick as she spoke into your ear, “You’ve caught a shark.” 

The charge nurse was then subjected to a tight-lip and a nonchalant shrug if anyone—like Perlah or Princess—queried Park the Shark’s regular attendance in the ED, even when he was not required. She turned a blind eye to the coffees delivered under your name with a cryptic note that had been left for your deciphering only. And, when you adorned a cute little shark pin on your badge…well, Dana Evans bit her tongue and diverted her attention to what mattered.

The only thing Dana had commented on was that, against all stereotypes of the big bad boyfriend and bubbly girlfriend, she had become privy to the knowledge that Brendon Park liked his luminous green matcha and you liked your black coffee; this was after she had caught you sneaking a kiss with the intimidating OR figure before your shift started, both grappling onto your drinks of choice from the local coffee shop a few blocks down the road. 

It was also the first time Dana had ever seen a smile on Park’s face. (Something she thought about for the rest of her shift, because clearly, you were doing something right to soften that concrete shell of his.) 

So, as a collective, Brendon Park exceeded all expectations for a man who severely lacked the traits of a social butterfly. He was a man that proved that being mean to the world never encroached into the space of when it came to loving his girl. 

And, you were being loved right.

With all this thought about having a magnitude of gratitude for the hostile OR surgeon that made enough space for you and your bizarre animal facts to slot into his life, you watched as Park peeled the latex gloves from his hands and exited the room that Dr. Robby remained in for a few moments more. His hand—as everyone’s routinely did—came to the sanitiser dispenser; eyes scoping the chaotic scenes of the Pitt until he managed to find you amongst the other residents. 

No animal facts today, big guy. 

You took a sip of your coffee. 

Park tilted his chin at you when he began to rub the sanitiser into the callus of his hands. There was not a singular hint of a smile, but from the intensity of his stare, you could presume his thoughts were far from the means of child friendly.

(Neither of you had the desire to catch a HR case with Glorida Underwood. So, the PDA of it all stayed within the confines of the PTMC car park, or either of your apartments.)

“He’s looking right at us.” Javadi muttered under her breath, body turned to face Whitaker—who was quick to busy himself with his watch—and you from the side to prevent the obvious staring you had all been doing. 

Park began to wade through the ED, eyes set on you as he made his way back to the stairs—because he didn’t have time for elevators. You spoke to him through the subtlety of facial expressions, and he exchanged yours for a brief wink which made your skin prickle with heat.

He disappeared to the staircase, and your phone brightened up in your scrub pockets. 

Sharky (4:26pm): You’re beautiful. Love Island tonight. 

You had been missing for seventy-two, long and gruelling hours. 

The attack had been performed with the cleanest precision, zero collateral damage to the exterior of the building, no further casualties of citizens as nobody had anticipated a forced entry into—what seemed to be—an ordinary woman’s apartment that she made a home with her husband. 

It was only when you stepped across the threshold of the front door, that the evidence than Lex Luthor had the upmost intentions of tearing Superman out, root and stem; to provoke him into an ill-tempered and blinded rage that could be smeared across every news broadcast on a global scale. 

It happened on a regular Tuesday, around 5:04pm, where you had shaken the heavy rainfall off of your brightly coloured umbrella and entered the apartment complex after a shift that seemingly stretched the hours of the day. You yawned as you placed your more favoured umbrella against the rickety coat stand in the corner of the hallway, thrilled to be home with a hot shower beckoning you from the en-suite. 

You weren’t sure if you had developed this sixth sense, so to speak, since being your husband that brought all the bells and whistles of varied levels of threat to your doorstep. The pair of you had done a brilliant job at concealing the marriage from the ones that had ill-intentions toward Superman, rather than Clark Kent—because very few people knew the two coincided with each other. Despite taking all the extra precautions for your own safety…danger decided to find you in the tranquility of your own home. 

It had all been done on purpose, of course. Lex had located your address with minimal effort—Clark had yet to be assigned as a tenant on the long-term lease, and therefore, was saved from an exposé—and ensured that a place you held sacred to your heart, much like the Fortress of Solitude for Superman, was chewed up and spat out. Morphed to be unrecognisable, and far from a place that you would call ‘safe’ for a long time. 

Naturally, Lex sent one of his guinea pigs to smoke you out. He wasn’t one to get his hands dirty. 

The hairs raised on the back of your neck as you stood a few metres from, ultimately, your fate. Eyes blinking down the length of the hallway, there was a creak of a floorboard before you were subjected to Lex Luthor’s searing passion to rid the planet of the man in red and blue, by any means possible. 

Your husband then trudged through the elevator doors, soaked to the bone as he stepped out onto the floor level of your apartment; at 5:45pm. In one hand, he had a bunch of sodden flowers that he had stopped by the local florist en route, to hand select your favourite array of colours in the form of pretty flowers that he would never recall the names of, and the other hand held a lukewarm box of pizza to share on the sofa whilst you discussed the day you had. 

Clark’s favourite thing prior to entering the apartment, is to listen to the thrum of your heart beating within. A house could be defined as four walls, a roof over your head and a place to sleep. But, to Clark Kent, a home was wherever your beating heart was. 

Only to find, there was no symphony of beats per minute coming from the apartment. 

“Honey?” Clark wasted little time, projecting himself through the threshold, his own heart in his eardrums whilst he scanned the area for you. Flowers forgone, Clark sped through the hallway as he repeated, “Honey?” 

Suddenly, the reality began to seep into his bones as he took in the scene from the kitchen, into the living room and out the broken window that looked over the scenes of the Metropolis traffic below. 

The toaster that Clark had begged to replace, and the same one that you had begun to have sentimental attachment toward, was torn from the wall socket and tossed to the ground. The fridge door laid wide open, water droplets tapped onto the floorboards as the food within became perished from the forty minute window of being opened. 

The scratch marks along the walls were the worst part. Clark was able to stomach tracking them into the living room, where all signs of struggle could be seen in the way the sofa cushions had been ripped from their place, the side table kicked and smashed with the lamp atop of it broken into smithereens. 

And then, Clark spotted the pool of blood on the corner of the coffee table. 

It was enough evidence to send a rampant boil of rage coursing through his body as he exchanged his Daily Planet attire for the red and blue uniform that was meant to translate to the citizens of Metropolis that he was there to do good. 

He flew on autopilot to Luthorcorp, where he parted the initial barriers to Lex Luthor like an ocean. 

Lex sipped lazily at the dregs of his coffee, unsurprised—but utterly gratified—by Superman’s abrupt appearance within the building. Lex watched as the alien, sworn to protect the peace of the city, tear walls out with his bare hands before flying through stories of concrete flooring to go nose-to-nose with him. 

“Where is she?” 

Lex didn’t flinch. Superman’s breath hot against his face. 

He simply took a sip from his mug before answering, “A simple ‘hello’ does wonders.” 

Clark squared his shoulders, forehead almost touching Lex’s as he ground down on his molars out of blinded rage. He pressed an index finger into Lex’s chest, “You have no right. She’s—” He could feel the lump in his throat enlarge as he spoke, “—She’s innocent.” 

“Is she?” Lex countered. 

“What have you done with her, Lex?” 

Lex curled his lip, “Don’t worry, she’s not dead—” 

The male barely managed to finish his sentence before Clark grabbed the fabric of his waistcoat and pinned him up against the wall that had been behind him. Winded, but succeeding in his attempt to rile the so-called martian up, Lex glanced to the side from his peripheral to see Eve Teschmacher capturing the encounter on her phone. 

Lex clicked his tongue to chastise Superman. 

“Is this how we behave, Superman?” Lex pressed down on the button that was setting Superman off, “By threatening someone?”

Clark breathed through his nostrils, “You don’t want to see how I behave if you don’t return her. I know what I am without her. Do you want to see that?” He then released the white-knuckled grip he had on Lex Luthor to retreat into the skies in order to try hone in on where Lex had concealed you. 

It took seventy-two hours for you to be—for lack of a better word—dropped off at the Metropolis General Hospital. 

A visitor had stumbled upon you, lethargic and laid amongst the long grass that hadn’t been cut for a month. Eyes swollen from purple bruises, the moment the nurses who had been called by the visitor to rush to your aid; you let out a shrill scream, unsure of who was putting their hands on you. 

You begged and pleaded as four of them pinned you to a gurney. Severely dehydrated, you were unable to produce a singular tear whilst you sobbed from the pedestrian entrance up into the Emergency Department. 

“Ma’am, I promise you, you are safe.” One of the nurses called over the sobs that wracked your frame, “You are at the Metropolis General Hospital. Have you got any family we can contact?” 

“Clark.” You rasped, clutching onto her hand to ground yourself, “Call Clark Kent.” 

He was there within ten minutes. A foot above the rest of the visitors, Clark pushed his way through to the front desk and hurriedly exchanged your details for a room number—the information that the reception had on hold for him dismissed as he sprinted down the hallway to find you. 

Room 204. The lights dimmed and blinds pulled downward to prevent any nosy neighbours from peering into your room, you had been hooked up to enough morphine to counteract the pain from three fractured ribs and a broken collarbone. (Not to mention the extensive bruising across your body from the fight you attempted against the Hammer of Boravia.) 

Clark clutched onto the end of his tie as he peered his head into the room. His stomach churning at the sight of you bundled up in a hospital bed with wires hanging off of you. 

It was the hardest pill he had ever had to swallow; the reality of what being married to someone like him meant. 

He approached you with caution, not to startle you—something he had heard the receptionist quickly say prior to his dash across the hospital to locate you—his heart hammering against his ribcage when he began to notice that the shadows cast across your face were, in fact, purple bruises. 

The chair next to you creaked when Clark sat down on it, and you jolted in sheer horror from the noise that brought you back to the moment the Hammer of Boravia took you from your home with force. 

Clark hushed you, hands gentle against your shoulders when you attempted to sit upright, “Honey, it’s me. It’s me, Clark. You’re—Gosh, you’re—” Any part of Clark that was holding it together relinquished at the sight of you. His waterline brimmed with tears, his lips pulled into a deep frown, “—I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, honey.” 

After your heart returned to a normal beat, your shoulder pressed back into the raised head of the bed, fingers curled around Clark’s as he unabashedly allowed his emotions to grip him by the throat. 

“I should’ve been there.” Clark cried, nose clogged, “I should’ve—It was the one thing I promised to do. If—If I hadn’t stopped for those flowers.” He scrunched his face up at the memory that had been tripping him up for the past seventy-two hours. Where one decision of romance, had led to the inability to protect you from the inevitable.

Although, you had every inclination to believe that Lex Luthor wouldn’t stop his motives regardless if Superman happened to be present that day, or not. 

Unable to see the majority of the room, you let your hand move across Clark’s forearm, and up toward his face; where you rested the palm of your hand against his cheek. 

Clark turned his head to press a featherlight kiss against your palm. His lips staying there afterward. 

“I could’ve lost you.” Clark whispered. 

You gave a nod, “You didn’t.” 

“It gave me insight as to what it would have been like.” Clark admitted, gently removing an eyelash from your cheek, “I can’t operate without you. It was as if, as if you were the core to my impulsiveness. I—I cannot live without you.” 

“Till death do us part, Clark.” You muttered, unable to process any further emotions; so you resided to mild humour to push you through. You spoke again, “And, I’m not dead.” 

“Please.” Clark shut his eyes, “Please, don’t even say that. I’d go insane.” 

You felt the tears prickle behind your eyelids, chest rising and falling quickly. “I know you would. That’s why I held on.” 

Clark Kent pressed a kiss to your knuckles, utterly inconsolable from your words. 

You did your best to offer a meek smile in an attempt to conceal the traumas that flashed across your mind. A smile to ensure that Clark didn’t act upon impulse and burn half the city of Metropolis to ashes.