this ᵘˢᵉᵈ to be a 𝐅𝐔𝐍𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄.

@theirmadness    (    william   shafter    )    sent    :    ☛ - press a finger to my muse’s lips to shut them up. // william @ nat

                    NATASHA   HAS   BEEN   TRYING   to   explain   away   the   bruises   and   wounds   that   she   has .     it’s   why   she’d   ended   up   at   the   hospital   in   the   first   place .     james   had   gotten   a   little   bit   too   …   emotional   during   the   time   leading   up   to   dinner .     she   was   supposed   to   have   it   on   the   table   at   the   precise   moment   that   he   stepped   foot   into   their   home   after   work .     she’d   been   a   couple   minutes   late   this   time   ,   just   because   the   meat   for   the   pot   roast   hadn’t   been   fully   cooked   yet .     it   was   her   fault .     she   hadn’t   taken   it   out   to   dethaw   early   enough .     she   fully   believed   that   she   deserved   the   treatment   she   got   ,   just   because   of   how   james   has   conditioned   her   over   the   years .     still    [   …   ]    more   times   than   not   ,   she   wants   so   badly   to   just   cram   a   fork   right   into   his   eye   socket   and   twist   it   around .     she’s   the   mastermind   behind   all   the   murders   that   he’s   so   fucking   proud   of .     without   her   ,   his   life   would   mean   nothing .     but   ,   he   still   takes   her   for   granted .     she   wishes   that   she   could   be   free   of   him .     wants   to   give   him   something   to   really   balk   at .     perhaps   ,   she   will   kill   him   one   day .

                    WHEN   THE   DOCTOR   ,   A   one   william   shafter   ,   places   his   index   finger   to   her   lips   while   she’s   trying   to   instinctively   ramble   out   some   sorry   excuse   for   her   equally   sorry   husband    [   …   ]    natasha’s   blood   immediately   runs   cold .     it’s   something   about   his   gaze   that   sets   off   her   instincts .     it’s   the   same   look   that   james’   eyes   have   ,   despite   their   differences   in   color .     william   has   the   eyes   of   a   killer .     it’s   something   that   one   would   only   recognize   ,   if   the   knowledge   were   intimate .     and   ,   that   makes   it   all   the   more   terrifying    ―    and   ,   unbelievably   ,   exhilarating .     natasha   freezes   ,   torn   between   biting   the   doctor’s   finger   off   and   listening   to   what   he   might   possibly   have   to   say .     she   may   be   the   brains   behind   the   killing   ,   but   she’s   never   taken   a   life   herself .     that   is   completely   beyond   the   realm   of   possibilities   for   her   ,   unless   it   were   to   happen   to   james   himself .     do   you   really   think   the   hot   headed   idiot   known   as   james   rudolph   could   ever   get   away   with   serial   murder   like   he   has   ,   without   the   help   of   someone   vastly   more   intelligent   ?     she   would   cook   that   motherfucker   ,   if   she   could .

the telltale signs were all there. william has seen it far too many times in his career, particularly these late night shifts in the pit. he doesn't pull his hand away when she shifts. instead, his arm drops gracefully, his hand slipping effortlessly into the pocket of his pristine white coat. he finds himself thoroughly, unexpectedly amused.

it is so incredibly rare that someone looks at him.

the great dr. william shafter, savior of the sick, generous philanthropist, and sees the monster lurking beneath the charming surface. people are usually so blinded by his reputation and his handsome face that they never look closely enough at his eyes.

she saw him. that spark of recognition, the mix of terror and thrill flashing across her features? it feeds the god complex humming beneath his skin, rich and deeply satisfying. it has been so long since someone has looked at him and seen the wolf hiding inside the sheepskin. no one has ever looked at the real him, and not flinched.

the heavy, brutish footsteps of natasha's husband echoing down the sterile hospital corridor hardly register as a threat to him. to william, men like him are nothing but blunt instruments. crude, messy, and entirely beneath him. the idea that this loud, hot-headed idiot could ever compare to the delicate, meticulous artistry of what william does is almost insulting. he watches natasha shrink back against the pillows, her visceral reaction to the approaching footsteps. yet, william can see the calculating mind working beneath the fear. she's no simple, helpless victim. she's a puzzle, and william has always loved taking things apart to see how they bleed. when she whispers her ultimatum, challenging him right to his face, he gives her an arrogant smirk.

the sheer audacity of it is thrilling. he leans in just a little.

“ careful, dear. ” his voice promises both salvation and ruin. “ you might just get exactly what you ask for. as a surgeon, i've always had an unique talent for excising malignant tumors. ” the moment the door handle begins to turn, the predatory, knowing gleam in william's eyes vanishes entirely, replaced instantly by the warm, deeply concerned gaze of a world-renowned physician.

the transition is flawless, practiced to terrifying perfection. he straightens his posture, picking up the chart from the end of her bed just as the loud husband bursts into the room. william turns to face him, his expression a picture of calm, unbothered authority.

“ mr. rudolph, i presume? ” he asks smoothly, not a single trace of the killer left in his demeanor. “ i'm dr. shafter. i was just going over your wife's rather concerning injuries. please, come in. we have quite a bit to discuss. ”

he gestures toward the chair in the room, welcoming him in as if they were expecting him and he hadn't just burst in. “ that is, if your wife wants you here. ” he does not look away from james as he speaks. this isn't a predator. this is a kitten, and william is a much bigger, much older cat.

A break from boys. It's what she'd promised her mother, as she'd put New Orleans in her rearview mirror. She can still see the furrowed brow, the constant look of worry on her face. Anais had given her word-- she was still too soft, still wore her wounds too openly, and men are particularly good at smelling blood in the water, at flocking to vulnerability and preying on it. She'd built a system, a series of internal alarms at the first breach of her sky high walls, and for a long while they'd worked. Until that class, and that boy--and that horrifically disarming smile.

Leo-- had breeched her walls without trying. She was tangled in this flirty dance with him before she had even recognised the danger. He held her gaze, and teased her and there was no blaring, no reminder that she needed to run. He's earnest, and open-- and it's a lethal combination for her. She leaves that classroom with her head in the clouds, her own vow forgotten-- the only thing she can think about is what she should wear tonight and where he might take her. Anticipation--excitement-- she floats on a quiet wave of it until the end of her day.

She hums whilst she gets ready, and ignores the looks her best friend throws her way as she moves through the apartment, examining her dress choices with far more scrutiny than they warrant. In the end she picks a vintage alaia she hasn't worn in years. it's a backless little black dress that clings to her like a second skin, stopping just short of her knees, she slides her feet into a pair of heels to complete the look. it's maybe-- definitely-- too much for a first date, but she wants to put that dazed look on Leo's face again. Wants her to look at her like she's-- something. She styles her hair, leaves it cropped and curly, in a messy pixie cut-- and does her make up with more care than she's had in an entire year. She lets her playlist ease her nerves a little and focuses on the unrelenting buzz of excitement in her gut.

when the door opens, leo's brain entirely short-circuits. he had spent the last six hours agonizing over every detail of this evening, trying to imagine what she might wear, but absolutely nothing could have prepared him for the reality of anais. the little black dress clings to her like it was made specifically with her in mind, the vintage cut highlighting her frame and hinting at the bare expanse of her back. she looks like a siren, an old hollywood dream he has no intention of waking up from, like her song was made just for him. his breath catches in his throat all over again, and for a long moment, he forgets how to speak. he just stares at her, his eyes wide and undoubtedly filled with that same dazed, utterly enchanted look she had put there earlier.

it's the sound of hervoice that finally snaps him out of his reverie. he clears his throat, his adam's apple bobbing as he looks down at the flowers in his hand, almost surprised to find them still there. “ of course they're for you. ” his voice comes out a little lower and huskier than he intended. he extends the bouquet of red roses toward her, offering a crooked, boyish smile. “ though i have to admit, they hardly do you justice. you look... ” he pauses, his gaze sweeping over her face. he can see how she put thought into everything, from the dress to the makeup. and it's working. he is hooked. “ absolutely breathtaking, anais. you truly are a vision. ”

crossing the threshold of her apartment feels dangerously intimate. the soft lighting, the fact he can tell they're alone—it sends a fresh jolt of that electric energy straight to his core. the air feels thick with it. he takes in her space, but his eyes inevitably wander right back to her, drawn to the way she moves in those heels. when she asks if he wants a drink, he wants to say the only thing he's thirsty for is the taste of her lipstick, but he expertly reins in that eager fire in his belly. he wants to do this right. he wants to sweep her off her feet. “ a glass of water would be perfect, thank you. ”

he follows her inside, unable to resist the magnetic pull she has on him. he watches the way the dress dips low on her back, his hands practically itching to reach out and touch the bare skin there. he shoves his free hand into the pocket of his slacks to keep himself behaving. “ i hope you don't mind, i took the liberty of making a reservation at a little spot downtown. a friend of my dad's owns it, so i managed to get us a really good table. it's quiet, and really intimate. amazing food. i thought it might suit us. ” he flashes her a look that is pure charm, approaching her slowly and with a natural grace as she gets his water.

He was brought to her in chains. Once again he had been caught. But this time it wasn't because he lost a battle, like it had happened at the whispering woods. No. This time it had happened because he hadn't thought anyone in her service would recognize him. Seven hells, he doubted she would've recognized him in the first place if it hadn't been for Ser Barristan.

Green eyes flicker over to Tyrion. Jaime had no doubt that it was thanks to his little brother that he was still alive. Even if that might not be the case for much longer.

Looking up, green met amethyst and he couldn't blame her for the visible anger in them. He had murdered her father. The man he had sworn to protect. The reasons for it were secondary. Would she even care about them? She did seem to care about her people. But then which ruler had ever cared for the truth? The Mad King hadn't. Neither had Robert Baratheon. And his son, Joffrey? He hadn't seen much of his reign, busy fighting against the Rebellion of the North and getting captured by them only to get released and be brought back to Kings Landing by Brienne.

"My sister liked calling me the stupidest Lannister from time to time. Maybe she was right with it my lady." He cocked his head to the side, shackled hands clasped in front of him. Either she was willing to listen, or he would loose his head sooner or later anyway, so he didn't have much to loose in the first place.

"I guess I wanted to see for myself my lady. There have been so many Kings to protect in Westeros lately, one doesn't know where to look. They are appearing everywhere. The King of the North, The King of Highgarden, The King of the Narrow Sea, The King of the Iron Isles and of course the King of the Iron Throne...." And most of them were dead already. "So many kings, so many vows and oaths. How is a man expect to choose who is the rightful one?"

the silence that follows his words is heavy. thick with the tension in the room and the looming, restless presence of her dragons somewhere far above the pyramid's walls. she doesn't move. she remains perfectly still upon the makeshift throne they made her, her fingers tracing the fabric of her tokar. a king of the north, of the iron isles, of the narrow sea. he speaks of a broken realm as if it were a game of cyvasse, played by children who have forgotten the value of the pieces they are sacrificing.

she has heard the histories. she has read the scrolls brought to her by viserys, the tales told directly to her by ser barristan selmy—the stories of the kingslayer, the man who turned his blade on his own sovereign. but looking at him now, seeing the way he speaks not of gold or glory, but of the exhausting weight of vows made to men who deserved none of them, she feels a strange, cold shiver of recognition. “ i am not a lady, ser. certainly not in this country, upon this land which you stand now. you will address me by my title i have conquered. ”

it is the first matter of business: give him the chance.

she does that for tyrion's sake. “ you speak of kings as if they are disposable commodities, ser, ” her voice echoes in the vast chamber, cool and measured; the voice of a queen. she has been ruling in meereen long enough now. the young woman jaime lannister sees is not the trembling, uncertain girl from the red waste. she shifts slightly, her posture becoming more regal, her chin lifted high. “ perhaps, in westeros, they are. but you stand before a queen who has built her crown from the ashes of everything she was ever promised. ”

dany looks at tyrion for a brief moment—seeing the silent plea in his eyes, before her gaze snaps back to jaime. she finds she is not ordering ser barristan to draw his sword. not yet. she is a woman who has survived through hunger, through loss, and through betrayal; she has learned that the truth is rarely as simple as the songs they sing. “ the songs tell me you are a monster who betrayed his oath, ” she says, her eyes narrowing, burning with that intense, conflicting heat. she leans forward just an inch, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous command. “ tell me the truth of it, then. strip away the honour you claim to have lost and the madness you claim to have witnessed. tell me why the man who killed my father did so, and why you believe that story, the whole story as you so claim, is worth the price of your life in this room. ” she glances at the chains binding his hands, then back to his face. “ my children are hungry. i would make your next words worth the cost of your soul, if you value it. ”

daenerys was under no illusion about what her father had been. she had no memory of the man, had never met him in her young life, and yet the ghost of him and his legacy haunts her every day. every decision she makes, she is forced to face what her father has turned their family dynasty into: was she mad, just like him? was she cruel, like viserys? her fingers dig into the palms of her hands, the only small sign of the tension she is holding in her chest. for the first time in over a decade, she might just hear the truth of what happened that fateful night. a part of it.

@theirmadness Asked:

your heart is beating so fast right now. // from chuck @ dany

【༶•⛧┈♛】   ――――    ❝   And   how   are   you   know   that   standing   all   the   way   over   there,   Sir   ?   ❞   Daenerys   asked,   her   violet   eyes   widening   with   curiosity. She   stood   from   her   throne,   her   silver-blonde   hair   swaying.   The   throne   room   of   Dragonstone   suddenly   felt   much   smaller,   more   claustrophobic.   Dany   fell   silent,   her   mind   racing.   She'd   seen   many   impossible   things   in   her   journey   across   Essos   and   Westeros,   but   this...   this   was   different.   As   far   as   she   was   aware   he   was   no   Maester...   even   if   he   was,   no   Maester   she'd   ever   encountered   possessed   such   uncanny   abilities.

She   felt   a   chill   run   down   her   spine.   She   had   faced   armies,   conquered   cities,   and   walked   through   fire,   but   this   unassuming   man   before   her   made   her   feel   truly   unsettled   for   the   first   time   in   years.

❝   Why   have   you   come   here   ?   ❞   She   demanded,   her   voice   carrying   the   authority   of   a   queen   despite   her   inner   turmoil.   ❝   I   insist   upon   knowing   your   name   and   title,   Sir.   ❞   All   the   while   she   tries   to   focus   to   slow   the   beating   of   her   heart.

❝   As   you   can   see   I   have   a   Kingdom   to   run,   I   don’t   like   my   time   being   wasted.   ❞   Daenerys   continued,   her   voice   steady   despite   the   unease   churning   in   her   stomach.   Her   guards   tensed,   hands   on   their   weapons,   but   she   raised   a   hand   to   stay   them.

chuck lets out a short, airy chuckle. as a sound, it's so entirely out of place in the grim, cavernous hall of dragonstone. he doesn't bow. he doesn't even straighten his posture. instead, he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his breeches, rocking back on his heels as he looks up at the silver-haired queen. he completely ignores the guards; to him, they're nothing more than background extras in a scene he's currently revising.

“ how do i know? ” he repeats her question, his tone mild, almost conversational. he takes a casual step forward, entirely unbothered by the heavy tension in the room or the warning glint of steel. “ your life is a beautiful song i composed a long, long time ago, daenerys stormborn. ” he glances around the throne room, taking in the carved stone dragons with a mild, appreciative nod, like a critic admiring a theatre set. he finally brings his gaze back to her. despite his painfully ordinary appearance, there is a sudden, inexplicable weight to his presence—something far older and vaster than the world she is trying to conquer. it makes the air in the room feel incredibly thin.

“ titles are so dramatic... so easily given and taken away. often useless, in the grand scheme of things. names, however. now those are important. i have had many. ” he pulls one hand from his pocket to wave it dismissively in the air. “ some refer to me as elohim. some still pray to a seven faced god. i prefer charles. i am a lord, a king, a god. so you see, titles when it comes to my being, are a rather complicated matter. call me chuck or ser charles, if it'd please you. ” he tilts his head, offering her an almost apologetic smile as he watches her process the sheer absurdity of his claim.

“ i am not here to waste your time, your grace. i am here, as a fellow monarch, to offer my help. i have waited a long time for you to come to westeros. now that you are here... we may finally begin. ” he smiles like he is sharing a secret with her. like he knows something which she is not privy to. he stops just at the bottom step of the dais, extending a hand toward her with a charming smile. his eyes are the exact, matching colour of the sky outside. it's a suspiciously bright day in dragonstone. the dragons are circling up in the skies, singing their song. “ allow me to show you what i can offer you, mother of dragons. ”

"You could easily be both, if I'm honest." Maeve confesses, eyeing the lady from head to toe. She had been staring at her for a while – the only person that seemed worth a damn around there. Drink in hand, she felt braver than she could ever be – not giving a damn as to the possible consequences of flirting with a random stranger when she should be laying low back at the tower.

Being a Supe, ultimately, sucked. But the view she had, right now, was worth it... Maybe, she should go out and drink more often.

“ you can buy me several drinks, ” jess was already half a bottle of whiskey in.

she definitely wouldn't mind the company. yes, she immediately clocked who the hot redhead was, but that didn't really matter to her at all. if her brain was working, she'd avoid vought at all costs. but given the fact maeve is clearly trying to be incognito, she doesn't think she's going to be snitching about the secret supe she met and fucked at a bar—and yes, that is definitely where this was headed. “ i'll have whatever you're having. you strike me as a woman with taste. ”

she smiled over the rim of her own glass she downed the amber liquid in one go, slamming it down on the counter before turning her body to face maeve. she offered one of her hands and a clearly slightly intoxicated smile. “ jessica jones. big fan. don't worry, i won't blow your cover. didn't figure this was the type of bar you'd frequent. not very queenly. ” not that she's complaining, right now.

sam doesn't miss a beat. he is sat across the table, broad shoulders squared in a suit that fits just well enough to pass inspection, the fake badge for detective resting heavy in his inner pocket. he's playing the part flawlessly, but the hunter in him is entirely on edge. there's something deeply unsettling about the man sitting across from him.

the sunglasses indoors, for one. the too-smooth, almost rehearsed cadence of his voice, for another. sam has dealt with enough monsters to know when someone is projecting an illusion of humanity. he just hasn't decided whether he is of the supernatural or the human kind just yet. “ a tragedy, yeah, ” sam agrees, his tone remarkably even, offering a sympathetic nod that is entirely practiced.

It’s easy to let them crumble, her warm and gentle palm. His touches are purposful in his determination not to simply waver for her but prove his worth to her and finds himself surprised when she suckled his fingers in a manner than makes his heart quicken and he can see the darkness that begins to mirror his own.

The sound it makes as she pops it from her lips is sweet; he wants it on the real thing and feels the urge to lower his clothes down to his breeches for her just to feed her his cock. He swallows hard. In the years he had loved her, yearned for her becomes a reality he can hardly beleive but here he sits with her alone with only a single thought shared between them.

He closes his eyes slowly to her hand cupping his cheek; head turning to kiss her palm and meets those violet eyes.

She whispers to him. “i would not play with a bear when it comes to mating,”

Jorah growls at the sentence alone; to mate. His queen, Daenarys - the woman who holds his heart.

He looks up at her as her hands pushes his back into his seat. His back hit the back, her body follows as she sits on his lap and brings her above his groin. Immeadiatly her name utters from his lips. “Daenarys” Jorah is ser he’s already leaking from the tip of his cock from the simple movement. Her moan echoes in his ear, parted lips enticing him to move forward and he does so.

She’s wet, hot at her centre and his lips touches hers and kisses her softly. “Yours” he utters, eyes glancing at her cunt and her hard nipples distract his sights before she lays another hand on his chest.

“I have always loved you” he answers her question, kissing her again and ensures her with the only truth is his words he speaks, feels deep in his very soul. There are no more reasons to stop himself as she confesses her need in such a way he cannot ignore and pulls up the sheer fabric as his mouth kisses her neck, hands caressing her back and his mouth envelops a nipple as he suckles at it and pops it wet from his mouth before he takes the other.

He lifts her, hands under her and takes her to the bed where he lays her down and parts from her as he undresses until he bares his bosy to her. He scared, proof of his survival from the brink of death, scars from the sharp edges of a sword that but still hardened muscles laid beneath them.

her breath catches in her throat as he crawls back over her, his massive, hardened frame caging her in. a ragged, desperate gasp spills from her parted lips as he swipes his thick, weeping length against her slick, swollen folds. her hips instinctively buck upward, chasing the friction, aching for the heavy fullness of him to finally stretch her. she is so wet, so incredibly ready for him, burning with an emptiness that she knows only he can fill. ask of me to fuck you or love you, daenerys. her hands reach up, her delicate fingers splaying flat against his broad, battle-hardened chest. she can feel the erratic, heavy thumping of his heart beneath her palms. her nails lightly drag against his skin as she looks up into his eyes, seeing the raw, unbridled devotion and need swirling within them. a dragon does not beg, but for her sweet bear, she is willing to come terribly close. “ why must they be two different things, my sweet bear? ” she breathes, her voice a sultry, trembling whisper. she slides one hand down his torso, her small fingers wrapping around his hot, solid length. she holds him firmly, guiding the blunt tip right to her entrance, teasing them both with the blunt pressure. to hold him in her hand, and feel the throbbing ache of his desire for her, is addictive. she hasn't felt this wanted, this loved, since khal drogo. why has she denied herself this? why has she denied herself him for so long? “ love me, jorah, ” dany moans the words, arching her back to press her slick heat flush against the tip of him. “ love me so deeply i forget my own name... and then fuck me until i can only scream yours. ”

𝑻𝒉𝒆   𝒔𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆   𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕   𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒚   𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒔  on   his   mouth   only   brightens,   perfectly   white   teeth   shown   with   his   mirth.   “Depends   on   your   answer.”   Though   Tony   was   never   known   for   his   subtlety,   every   now   and   again   he   liked   to   add   touches   of   it   to   the   way   he   flirted.   Of   course,   it   never   lasted   too   long;   the   billionaire   had   enjoyed   crudeness   far   too   much.   Nearly   as   much   as   he   enjoyed   seeing   the   look   on   people’s   faces   towards   whom   he   had   just   been   crude.   “Doesn’t   need   to   be   a   bed.   Could   be   a   table,   a   shower,   or   a   couch.   Or   we   could   just   go   at   it   standing;   not   my   favorite   but   still   fun.”

“I   do   mind,   and   you’re   not   forgiven.”   Nuh-uh,   he’s   not   taking   any   of   that   sassy,   attitude   filled   bullshit.   The   last   time   he   allowed   it,   he   ended   up   stranded   in   Siberia,   barely   alive,   and   he   would   not   like   a   repeat   of   that,   thank   you   very   friggin’   much.   So   even   if   this   makes   him   look   like   a   self-centered   jackass,   Tony’s   gonna   pick   at   the   scab   until   it   bleeds   and   the   truth   starts   spilling   out.   “We   have   plenty   of   time   until   we   arrive   at   Thanos’   planet.   More   than   enough   time   for   you   to   think.   So   I   wanna   hear   it   —   what   did   I   do   for   you   to   go   from   asking   for   my   help   to   treating   me   like   I’m   a   piece   of   shit   stuck   to   your   shoe?”

He’s   crossing   the   distance,   hurried   steps   taking   him   to   Stephen   and   then   in   front   of   him,   blocking   the   sorcerer’s   path.   It’s   unlikely   that   the   taller   man   will   punch   him   —   considering   the   state   of   his   hands   it’s   doubtful   that   he’d   inflict   pain   on   himself   just   to   cause   Tony   some   as   well.   Which   means   that   the   mechanic   can   be   a   bit   of   a   brat   in   his   approach,   can   push   the   line.   Not   too   much   though   —   Stephen   might   not   be   able   to   deliver   a   good   hit,   but   he   is   a   magic   wielder   and   that   can   be   much   more   dangerous   than   any   right   hook.   “Come   on.   I’m   asking   for   ten   minutes,   after   that   I   promise   I   won’t   utter   a   single   word   to   you   if   you   won’t   want   me   to.”   

he exhaled slowly, his eyes narrowing at the shorter man. the cloak shifted restlessly around his shoudlers, sensing the spike in tension in him. “ you want ten minutes of my time while we're hurtling toward the single greatest threat our universe has ever faced? ” he didn't step back. he wouldn't give stark the satisfaction. instead, stephen met his gaze head-on, the faint tremor in his hands hidden within the folds of his cloak. the same hands that had once held scalpels with godlike precision and confidence. the same hands that now served as a constant, humiliating reminder of everything he'd lost... and everything he became.

“ you remind me of myself, stark. brilliant, arrogant, and utterly convinced that the universe revolves around your intellect and your charm. i spent a lifetime as a surgeon surrounded by people who whorshipped their own egos almost as much as they worshipped me. nurses, residents. all tiptoeing around fragile pride while lives hung in the balance. i was the worst of them. and i paid for it. ”