#drmckayera

"I would caution on work place fraternization but... that would mean I haven't thought the same of you."

Jack didn’t even notice her at first—too focused on getting to the couch before his leg gave him more trouble than he was willing to admit. The second he sat, the tension he’d been holding together slipped, and he let out a quiet breath as his hands moved automatically to the prosthetic, fingers working at the release with practiced ease. His jaw tightened as he shifted, the ache flaring sharper now that he wasn’t forcing himself to ignore it. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, more out of habit than belief, gaze fixed on what he was doing instead of her. “Just overdid it. SWAT call ran long… didn’t exactly give it a break before coming in.”

He finally pulled the prosthetic free, setting it carefully beside the couch before leaning back, one hand bracing against his thigh as he let his head tip briefly against the wall. His eyes closed for a second, breath steadying as he rode out the worst of it. “It’ll ease off,” he added after a moment, quieter now—still not quite looking at her. When he did glance up, it was brief, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly. “Just… needed a minute.”

CONTINUED from here

@drmckayera

This was pretty embarrassing, all things considered. Astrophage hadn’t been announced to the public and he was still studying it, with some local hot-shot astrophysicist.

And now his hand wouldn’t stop moving and it was freaking him out. He’d already had two panic attacks thinking it was from the Astrophage, but nobody else had reported symptoms like this, not lab workers anyway…

“Uh,” he tried, “writing. On a white board. I do a lot of calculations…for my job…”

@drmckayera || x

"Really Dr. McKay? I never would have guessed. You usually just seem vaguely annoyed by my presence."

Mel wants to go home. 

Next best thing is the blanket being wrapped around her as they attempt to find rest in the doctors lounge, that has been turned into the closest thing to a rest space as they could imagine - which mostly just meant blankets. 

“Thanks…”

It's impossible outside, the snow has barely been falling for a few hours and yet it's already thirteen inches deep. Too fast for the plows to keep up, too treacherous for half the night shift to get in. 

The power went out two hours ago, and the generators kicked in, and Mel realised that this was about as bad as had been forecast and this was going to be an experience and a half. 

It is the first ‘snow in’ she’s worked and the atmosphere is odd. Really fucking odd. So odd for this place that Mel feels like the apocalypse must be happening outside. The patients are just…not coming? They can’t get here. The ambulances are barely able to get in. 

Mel has this…forboding feeling about it. 

“Jesus—” he muttered under his breath, trying to angle the small mirror against the monitor so he could actually see what he was doing. Patching up other people was second nature. Doing it one-handed on himself was another story entirely.

The door clicked open behind him. Jack froze, then glanced over his shoulder — shirtless, gauze still pressed to the wound. “…Please tell me you’re not here to give me a lecture,” he said dryly. “Because I’m already aware this is extremely bad patient behavior, Dr. McKay.”

Robby let out a sharp breath through his nose when she said his name like that—Michael—and for a second, his eyes squeezed shut like he was bracing for impact that had nothing to do with the crash. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, jaw tight, not fighting her this time even as the jacket gave way under the scissors. “Add it to my tab.” There was a faint edge of humor in it, thin but intentional—something to hold onto while the rest of this spun out of his control.

His gaze tracked her voice instead of the ceiling now, focusing on the cadence of it, the way she moved—fast, precise, familiar. It grounded him more than anything else in the room. “Vitals are fine,” he added, quieter but still steady. “Ribs are pissed, shoulder’s worse than it looks. No head strike beyond the helmet—” A small hitch in his breath cut him off as she wiped the blood from his temple, the sting sharper than he expected. “—okay, maybe a little.”

His hand flexed against the board, testing against the straps he knew weren’t going anywhere. He hated that. Hated being pinned there while everyone else moved. But he forced himself to stay still, to let her work. “Cass,” he said, grabbing her wrist as his voice dropped just a fraction, less attending, more him. “Hey. You’re doing fine. I’m fine. Alright? I trust you."