#stormsurgery

       he was a very lucky boy. that’s what the doctors who’d been unlucky enough to be on shift when the storm hit kept telling him. had you been a couple inches to the left, we’d be looking at a very different story. wet roads, lightning, a truck spinning out of control in the parking lot. it had felt like a movie when it happened, the truck hurtling into the neon sign of the pony, which in turn had toppled and pinned archie to the ground. in that moment, he’d been almost certain he was going to die, and yet the movie scene playing out in his head was from fucking twilight as the wheels skidded past his head. bridget would probably have called it a bella swan moment if they’d been there to watch. too bad edward cullen hadn’t been there to rescue him. as it stood, archie had a sprained ankle, an arm in plaster, and a probable case of concussion, but aside from hopping around on one leg looking like dear evan hansen, he was doing better than most. locals had trickled in after him, some on their feet and some on stretchers, their injuries varying from mild to severe, and despite the fact that he’d been told he could under no circumstances discharge himself, he felt guilty for taking up a bed.

         it had taken him twice as long as it should have to get across the room to the vending machine, which was slowly running out of the good shit. soon, all there’d be left to consume was the stew, lovingly provided by the hospital, but that didn’t change the fact that it tasted like lukewarm piss. “hey, buddy. you’re up!” archie started, chipper as ever as he hobbled his way back across the ward and dropped down onto the bed beside his, narrowly avoiding the other patient’s legs. “i got you a regular coke — no diet ones left i’m afraid — and i want the m&m’s so you’ll have to settle for snickers.” they hadn’t asked for either, but if he’d just woken up from what felt like a year-long trauma nap, the first thing he’d want was a sugar rush. “sorry, mate. dealer’s choice.” sliding the snickers bar and the room temperature can of coke across to the other patient, archie tore open his packet of sweets and tossed one up into the air, catching it in his mouth. 

Doctors make the worst patients. It’s common knowledge amongst the people who work within the medical field, a cliché only because it just so happens to be true, and Dr. Ki-jung Park is certainly no exception to that. Despite coming in with injuries of his own, and despite the fact that he probably shouldn’t have attempted to come in at all, Key has been spending all of his time here frantically flitting between one person or another. Normally, one of his colleagues might have intervened, might have tried to force him into a bed given the substantial amount of bruising slowly bleeding a blueish-purple spread through his abdomen, but it’s all hands on deck, and nobody has time to babysit him. The cuts he attained were superficial, at least, so there’s only a minimal amount showing on the outside, especially with him still being in his street clothes right now. He hasn’t had time to change into anything else. Not yet.