Negative Space - Chapter two
Genre: Slow-burn, Medical realism, drama, smut eventually
Warnings: angst, mentions of blood, medical emergency, mentions of grief and loss. No smut so far, be patient :-) Please let me know if I forgot any warnings.
Pairing: Pedro Pascal x female reader
Summary: Mid-flight over the Atlantic, a medical emergency breaks out. Pedro's father collapses. Panic spreads. You act without hesitation. A field thoracotomy at 36,000 feet saves his life. Pedro watches you, stunned. His brother Nico helps, but it's your hands that bring their father back. Pedro is shaken. Grateful. Curious. And a little undone.
In-between note: thank you all so, so much for all your likes and reblogs! I appreciate it so much and it means a lot to me that people actually like what I wrote! This chapter was more difficult to write. Please keep in mind that this is purely fictional, I have obviously just followed my own crazy imagination and no one got actually harmed!
Chapter two: Oxygen
Somewhere above Newfoundland, he pulls out the worst airline snack mix you've ever seen—a crushed packet of salted pretzels and mystery nuts—and nudges you with a conspiratorial whisper.
"You think if I charm the flight attendant, we could score one of those ice cream cups from business class?"
You raise an eyebrow. "You could just ask. Like a normal person."
He leans in. "But that lacks drama.“ You stifle a laugh. "You're insufferable."
He grins. "You say that like it’s not part of the appeal.“ A beat. Then: "So what's a visceral surgeon doing reading poetry at 35,000 feet?“ You glance down at your open journal. The corner of a Rilke line peeks out.
"Escaping conference slides.“
He taps the page. "You know, if your lecture’s half as sharp as your sarcasm, London’s in for a treat." You almost smile. Almost.
And then there’s a shift—an unease rippling under the quiet. A hum of something wrong. A turmoil in the rows behind you. The man next to you is already sitting up, shoulders tense. You follow his gaze across the aisle. The older man—gray hair, sharp nose, ruddy cheeks—who he identified as his dad is slumped forward, his chest heaving irregularly. The younger man next to him is out of his seat, crouched by him, panic etched across his face.
“Dad?” The young man`s voice is cracking. “Dad. Hey. Papa?”
He moves fast, quicker than you’d have thought. But not fast enough. You’re already unbuckled, crossing the aisle, kneeling on the floor before the man’s chest.
Your voice is calm. Steady. “Can I examine him?” He nods. The other man, his brother, moves aside. You slide your fingers to the older man’s neck. His skin is cool. Damp. Pulse—barely palpable. Thready. You press your ear to his chest. Breath shallow. Then a pause. Then nothing. “He’s not breathing,” you say. “I need space.”
The two men scatter passengers backward. Flight attendants move in, trying to help, but their training only goes so far. You don’t wait. You climb fully into the aisle. Kneel hard. Hands center mass. You start compressions.
One, two, three, four—you count in your head. Familiar rhythm. Like music. Like memory.
This is not your first time watching a man die. But it never gets easier.
Thirty seconds in, another flight attendant brings the AED. You call for oxygen, for a medkit. You bark instructions, not cruelly, just cleanly. Decisively. You live inside the part of you that knows what to do. A jolt. No rhythm. You go back to compressions. The man’s body is heavy. Sweat beads at your temple. Pedro is at your side. “What can I do?” You glance up. He’s pale. Shaking. But standing.
“Hold his head stable. And talk to him.”
“He can hear me?” You don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. “Talk anyway.”
He swallows hard, nods, leans in. “Papa,” he murmurs, voice cracking. “It’s okay. We are here. We’ve got you.”
Time stretches. Three minutes. Four. You assess again. The heart’s not responding. The chest is stiff.
You know what’s next. And you’ve never done it at altitude. You look up. “He has a tension pneumothorax. Left side. If I don’t relieve the pressure, his heart won’t beat again.”
“What do you need?” the lead flight attendant asks. You list items: scalpel. large-bore needle. plastic tubing. antiseptic. She repeats them, scrambling. He stares at you, eyes wide. “You’re going to—what?”
“I’m going to cut his chest open,” you say, quiet but firm. “And I’m going to save him.” His mouth parts. No protest. Just fear. And trust.
They bring what you need. Not everything. But enough. You sterilize. Glove up. Slice. It’s not graceful. There is no field drape. No suction. You’re working blind. By feel. By memory.
You were trained for war zones. This is something else entirely.
He can’t look away. His brother cries quietly in the row behind. You insert the tubing. There’s a hiss. A release. You pray. You listen. Then—a beat. Another. You feel the pulse return like a ghost in the dark. You sit back. Knees aching. Hands soaked.
Alive.
An hour passes. The flight attendant has just infomed you that the plane is diverted to Dublin. You are still sitting on the floor, regularly checking on the man`s breathing.
He sits beside you. Quiet.
Then: “You saved him.” You nod. His voice breaks. “You saved my dad.” You look at him. „I don`t even know your name.“ He says. You give him a small smile and your name. He reaches for your hand. „Pedro.“ He introduces himself.
You excuse yourrself and go to the restroom. You stare at your hands in the lavatory mirror. The gloves are gone. The blood that managed to find a way through isn’t. Not entirely. Scrubbed as it is, it lingers in the cracks of your knuckles, beneath your fingernails. Echoes of a life not lost. You don’t cry. You never do. But you stare a long time.
You wonder—what if it had gone differently? If you’d hesitated? If the tube hadn’t hissed? If the breath hadn’t returned? The what-ifs are the cruelest part.
You return to your patient. Pedro and his brother are sitting next to him in the aisle, talking quietly. You slowly walk towards them.
His brother meets your eyes, still kneeling beside his father. "I’m Nico," he says quickly, voice low and tight with fear. "I'm a doctor too—but I don’t have your training.“ You nod and give him your name with a small smile. A beat passes between you—colleague to colleague, stripped of formality. A silent contract to save a life.
“Are you okay?” Pedro asks, but it’s his voice that trembles.
“I’m fine,” you lie.
He nods. “Do you always… shut it out like that?”
You glance at him. “I don’t have a choice.” He doesn’t push. But he doesn’t look away.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” he says. “The way you moved. Like you’d done it a thousand times. Like you were the only solid thing in the whole plane.” He looks at you with something resembling awe.
You shake your head. “I was terrified.” He pauses. “Didn’t look like it.”
You almost smile. “I used to think,” you say, “that competence would protect me. That if I was good enough at something, nothing else could touch me.”
“And now?”
You look out the window. The clouds have thinned. The sun is beginning to rise over the Atlantic, pale gold spilling across a navy sky. “Now I know better.”
Pedro doesn’t speak for a while. When he does, it’s soft. Honest. “My dad’s the reason I do what I do. He worked night shifts for thirty years so we could go to school. Everything I did—I did it to make him proud.”
You nod. Quietly moved.
“I thought I’d lose him. I really did.” You meet his gaze. “But then there you were. Just… there.” And then, almost shyly: “Can I ask you something?”You nod.
“Are you always like this?” You tilt your head. “Like what?”
“Steel in a storm.” You don’t answer. Because you don’t feel like steel. You feel like a woman who has spent too long holding herself together. But you let him believe it. Because maybe, in that moment, he needs to.
They bring you tea. It’s terrible. You drink it anyway.
Finally you reach Dublin and the plane approaches the runway.
As soon as the aircraft door opens, the paramedics are already on board—two in green flight suits, one with a case in each hand, their faces set in professional focus. You rise to meet them at the galley, blood already drying in the creases of your skin.
“He went into cardiac arrest about two hours ago,” you begin. “Tension pneumothorax, left side, possible spontaneous. Compressions ineffective—no pulse after four minutes. I performed an emergency thoracotomy with available tools. Air release was immediate. Pulse returned within ten seconds. Stable sinus rhythm since.”
The lead paramedic, a woman with sharp eyes and a clipped Irish accent, looks from you to the patient, then back. “You did a field thoracotomy on a transatlantic?” You nod once. “I’m a visceral surgeon.” Her brow rises. There’s no skepticism—only respect. “You kept him alive. Christ.”
They move past you. One hooks up oxygen. Another checks the vitals you’ve been monitoring manually. You stand back, breathing shallow, every nerve still on edge. But your hands don’t shake.
Pedro watches you as they wheel his father out. There’s awe in his silence now. Not just gratitude. You let it wash over you without comment.
The hospital in Dublin isn’t large, but it’s bright. It smells like bleach and fatigue. It hums with movement—nurses in sneakers, clipped words over intercoms, the occasional squeak of a gurney wheel against vinyl tile. You’ve been here before, not this City, not this hospital, but this space: fluorescent lights, too-cold waiting rooms, the nowhere between crisis and calm. You know this rhythm like you know your own heartbeat.
Pedro and Nico were taken back with their dad and the medics. You offered, quietly, to assist or to brief the attending. They thanked you. And then you were left alone.
The adrenaline has long since drained from your limbs, but the echo of it lingers, a hollow throb under your skin. You fold your hands in your lap. Your thumb finds the edge of your nail, a habit as old as medical school. You press just enough to feel it. A quiet, familiar tic.
You sit alone in a molded chair near the vending machines, the scent of weak coffee and antiseptic pressing in on all sides. Pedro’s father was wheeled away twenty minutes ago. You haven’t moved.
A nurse appears at your elbow. "Miss? There’s someone asking for you. In recovery. He said, 'the doctor who saved me.'"
You blink. Moments later, you're led through a set of swinging doors into a quieter wing. Pedro’s father is sitting up slightly in bed, nasal cannula in place, pale but awake. Nico stands at his bedside, and Pedro is at the foot of the bed.
He looks at you—really looks. His eyes are the same as Pedro’s, only sharper with age.
“You,” he rasps. “Come here.”
You hesitate. Then you step forward.
He takes your hand. His grip is dry and warm. “You’re the reason I’m still here,” he says, voice gravelly but clear. “Thank you. Thank you for not letting my boys lose their father.”
You nod and smile softly. “I’m just glad I was there in time.”
He looks you up and down, a bit of fire in his expression now. “You’ve got a strong heart. And good hands. I’ve seen a lot in my time, I was a doctor, too, once. Forty years of patients and procedures, and I’ve never trusted a stranger so fast.”
Pedro smiles quietly behind him. Nico gives you a subtle thumbs-up.
“You rest now,” you say gently. He nods, and the nurse encourages him to sleep.
Pedro walks with you back into the hall. The moment lingers between you—shared, solid. Real.
He looks tired. Rumpled. There’s a smear of something dark on the sleeve of his hoodie—maybe coffee, maybe blood. He doesn’t seem to notice.
“He’s stable,” he says, and then lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been held for a year. You nod, exhale slowly through your nose. Relief lands quietly.
You gesture to the empty chair beside you. He sinks into it with a sigh. Not touching, not crowding. Just close enough. For a while, neither of you speaks. Then Pedro looks at you. “ They’ve got him under observation. Said the tube was placed perfectly. The ICU doc kept saying ‘remarkable.’ Nico’s still with him.” You glance at him. “How’s your brother holding up?” Pedro rubs his face. “He’s better now. He said he froze, when it happened. Blamed himself.”
You shake your head. “He did exactly what he was supposed to. He called for help.”
Pedro looks at you. “And you were help.” There’s warmth in his voice. Something quiet. Reverent.
You shift your gaze away, thumb brushing against your thumbnail again. “I just did what needed to be done.”
“That’s what makes it so incredible.”
You say nothing. A silence settles between you. Heavy, but not uncomfortable. Tired. Honest. He breaks it first. “You know you scared the shit out of me, right?” You look at him, brow raised. “I mean—I’ve seen action movies. But field chest surgery? With an improvised scalpel and a prayer?”
You snort. “That was a medical-grade catheter. Eventually.”
“Oh, forgive me. The five-star open chest surgical experience.” Your mouth twitches.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Seriously. Thank you. I didn’t know people like you existed outside books. Or superhero origin stories.”
“I’m not a superhero.”
“No, you’re worse. You’re competent and emotionally unavailable. The most dangerous kind.”
That earns a real laugh from you. It startles you a little, how it slips out. You look at him. Really look. His curls are mussed, his shirt wrinkled, and there’s fatigue in the slope of his shoulders. But his eyes are still warm and steady.
A nurse offers tea. Pedro takes one for each of you. You sip it slowly, the warmth unfamiliar after so much sterile cold.
“I don’t usually do this,” he says.
“Do what?”
“Talk like this. Sit like this. With someone I just met.”
You smile faintly. “We didn’t exactly meet under normal circumstances.”
He laughs. “No. But still. I don’t usually trust people this fast.”
You look at him over your cup. “I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know.” He leans forward slightly. “That’s the intriguing part.”
That evening, you and the two brothers share a cab to a small hotel Pedro found online, just a few blocks from the hospital. Two rooms left. You take one. The brothers take the other. You could have gone your own way. You didn’t.
You can’t sleep. At midnight, you give up. You tie your hair up, pull on a hoodie over your pajamas, and pad barefoot into the hotel slippers.
The lobby is dimly lit, cast in a warm amber glow that blurs the edges of the armchairs and the sleepy front desk clerk reading behind the counter. Pedro is there. Slouched in a faded armchair, hoodie pulled over his head, legs stretched out. He’s flipping a tourist map between his fingers like it might answer a question he’s too tired to ask.
He looks up. And smiles.
“Thought I was the only ghost haunting the lobby. Insomnia?” he says.
You sit in the chair across from him, folding your legs beneath you. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Figured,” he says, dropping the map. “You have that quiet storm energy. Like someone who only sleeps when their body absolutely insists on it.”
You chuckle under your breath. “And you?”
“I sleep like a log. Just not tonight.”
For a moment, there’s only the sound of the night concierge tapping softly on a keyboard.
Pedro glances at the tourist map that is still in his lap “Apparently Dublin has more pubs per capita than any other European city. I’m reassessing my life choices.” You laugh.
He grins. Want to walk? Get some air?”
You hesitate, then nod.
Outside, the streetlights blur against the slick pavement. The night has that just-rained smell—wet stone, earth, and exhaust. The streets are damp. You walk in silence for a while, shoulder to shoulder. Pedro walks with his hands in his pockets, body loose now but eyes still shadowed. The city is quiet. Light rain falls.
Pedro tucks his hands deeperr into his hoodie pocket and says, “I used to do this with my mom. Late walks. When I was too wound up to sleep. She’d throw on a coat over her pajamas and we’d just wander. No destination. Just... breathing.”
You glance at him. “That sounds nice.”
“It was. Especially when things felt messy.”
You hum quietly in agreement. “Everything feels a little messy right now.”
“Yeah,” he says, with a quiet breath. “But also... something else. Doesn’t it?”
You stop beneath a streetlamp, golden light catching the curve of your jaw. “You’re a strange man, Pedro.”
He smiles, tilting his head. “Is that a compliment?”
I dare a small smile. “I think so.”
You walk again, your footsteps aligned, your shoulders occasionally brushing. It feels easier than it should. Familiar. Like you’ve done this before in another life.
“I wasn’t sure you’d want to talk,” you admit. “After everything.”
“Are you kidding?” he says. “You literally saved my dad. If anything, I figured you’d want space. People usually do after that much adrenaline.”
“I usually do.”
“But not tonight?”
You shake your head. “Not tonight.”
He smiles, softer now. “Me either.”
He’s quiet again. Then: “I know you’re flying to London tomorrow.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Keeping tabs on me?”
He grins. “Just paying attention.” You hesitate.
He softens his voice. “Can I see you again? Not as a patient’s family. Just… me.” You pause long enough for him to doubt it. Then:
“Maybe.” It’s not a yes. But it’s more than a no. He nods like he understands exactly what you mean.
"Do me a favor," he says, pulling out his phone from his pocket and unlocking it. "Give me your number. In case I need emergency sarcasm. Or another mid-air miracle."
You hesitate, your fingers worrying at the edge of your sleeve, just long enough for him to notice. Then you take the phone. Type it in. Hand it back.
"Don’t text me pictures of your breakfast," you warn.
"No promises."
You smirk. "And no memes."
He mock-gasps. "Now that’s just cruel."
But the look you share is soft. Real. Like you both know you’ve just crossed some invisible line neither of you is ready to name.
You reach the hotel door. Pedro holds the door open for you. You pause in the lobby. He doesn’t press. “You should get some sleep,” he says. “You’ve earned it. More than anyone I’ve ever met.” You nod. “You too.”
He grins. “I plan to pass out face-first in a three-star pillow and dream of better coffee.”
“Dream of thoracotomies,” you offer. He winces. “Hard pass.”
You almost say goodnight. But instead: “Thank you. For making me laugh.”
He softens. “Any time, doctor.”
You reach for his hand. Just briefly. Not a grip. Not a promise. Just a touch. And for now, that’s enough.
Later that night Pedro stands in front of the minibar fridge in his room, aimlessly thumbing through a bottle of soda. Nico’s asleep, his light snore barely audible beneath the hum of city traffic outside.
Pedro isn't tired. Not really. His body is, but his mind won’t let go of the image of you in the hospital corridor—still, precise, eyes tired but so alive. He saw the blood on your gloves while you worked on his dad. The focus in your voice. The impossible calm.
He sets the soda back. Rubs his hands down his face. He doesn’t know what it is exactly—something in your laugh when he gets it right, or how you look away when you’re trying not to let something land too close. You move like someone who’s survived the worst thing. Someone who doesn't trust easily.
He wants to know what it would feel like if you did. Then he pulls his phone from his pocket. No notifications. No new calls. Not yet.
He stares at your number in his contacts for a while, then locks the screen and leans back in the chair, arms crossed. He doesn’t need to rush this. He just hopes.
Back in your room you pull out your phone.
There’s only one person you want to talk to right now: Mira, your best friend since kindergarten. A gallery owner, art-brained and emotionally fluent where you are cautious and careful. She’s eight months pregnant with her first child, married to a sweet landscape architect who bakes when he’s stressed.
You text:
You: “I did a thoracotomy at 36,000 feet today.”
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Mira: “Of course you did. Were you wearing heels?”
You: “Flight socks. Classy ones.”
Mira: “Is this your way of avoiding the fact that you clearly saved someone’s life?”
You: “Not avoiding. Just… tucking it somewhere.”
Mira: “I know that drawer. It’s the same one you put Michael in.”
You pause.
You: “This felt different. I didn’t feel numb.”
Mira: “Did you feel something?”
You: “Yes.”
There’s a long pause.
Mira: “Was he handsome?”
You don’t answer right away.
You: “He’s… something. I don’t know yet.”
Mira: “Then it’s worth knowing.”
You smile.
You: “Tell Elias I’ll bring back something inappropriate for the baby.”
Mira: “You always do. I miss you.”
You: “Miss you too.”
You tuck the phone away. And breathe. You let the silence settle. You don’t want to say it. Not even to yourself.
But you feel it. That odd, prickling ache in your chest. The warmth that spread when he looked at you. The way your stomach twisted when he handed you that cup of tea like it meant something. The steadiness in his voice when he said your name.
It’s attraction, and it terrifies you.
You press your thumb into your nail again. A steady pressure. You’ve used this habit to focus, to bury panic, to bite back emotion during OR disasters and board exams and eulogies. You use it now.
You don’t want to let this feeling in. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Because if you name it—if you admit you like him, this stranger with warm eyes and a sharp sense of humor and grief sitting behind his smile—you’ll have to open a door you’ve spent years holding shut.
You press harder. No. Not yet. You’ve rebuilt a life that doesn’t depend on anyone. But the ache doesn’t go away.
The next morning, the airport feels quieter than usual. You sit at the gate alone. A black coffee in one hand. Boarding pass in the other. Your phone buzzes.
Pedro: “Let me know when you land safe. Or don’t. But I’d like it if you did.”
You type, delete. Type again. Then you write:
You: “Maybe I will.”
You board the flight. For the first time in years, your chest doesn’t feel heavy when the wheels leave the ground.
