getting pretty fuckin' tired

A Brendon Park who, while not the most approachable or friendliest, was still someone you didn’t have to walk on eggshells around. Who, albeit incredibly rarely: still smiled, even laughed, and relented to inanities like small talk. Who was blunt but never deliberately biting; who still had the tolerance for tenderfoot juniors; who still got the job done without taking out his anger unjustly and unsparingly—

All because he still had the sun in his life to look forward to, curled in bed back home. A happiness. A meaning.

And only those who’ve been working in PTMC long enough would’ve had the chance to see him become a hollowed out shell of what he was; Carving himself into this bitter, angry thing who adapted into gladly accepting the dreadful allonym bestowed upon him.

(Quickest way to put an end to the rumors about himself is to grow countless rows of teeth sharp enough to snap, after all. Lethal enough to scare off anyone who looks his way and dares to ask: Hey, Doc, what’s the ring around your necklace mean?)

The departments knew better than to try comforting him, by and by. Eventually the regulars, like Shamsi and Walsh and Garcia, learned the irritability and the lashing out is because there’s a scar— No, a wound, that will never come to heal. And even Dr. Abbot himself knows the harrowing grief of losing someone this close but— 

Not like this, he tells Robby, after a time they’d gotten chewed out by the Shark. Not with only one engagement ring and a wedding planned excitedly ahead, with invitations already sent out that had to be rescinded; That had to be resent as memorial invitations instead going In Loving Memory of Mrs—

And like all folklores go: no one knows the true story or dares to ask what really happened to turn him into this beast.

There will always be rumors, of course, like how Dr. Park’s sudden interest in Orthopaedic Oncology right after completing his Fellowship in Trauma was borne out the fact his fiancée died from a sickness— Chondrosarcoma, they suspect, aggressive and rare, you know? Hard to fight and even harder to beat. 

Or that she’d been killed from a freak accident that took her in a blink, and he received the news too little too late because he’d been elbows deep in a surgical case. It’s why he can’t stand sticking around the ED longer than necessary, the nurses say. This was where she last was, and he couldn’t get down to her in time.

So he has no patience for nonsense or bullshit. Here to do the job and only the job, because now the job is all he has left; And being that formidable sea-monster, that great-white, is the only way to keep him buoyed afloat or swimming through the whitecap waves of his thalassic grief after drowning in it.

Drowning, and breaching the waters as Park the Shark.

Baptismal. A leviathan of Orthopaedics. Jagged teeth and snapping jaws and sea-pelagic bitterness. Parting rooms like an apex predator among schools of fish. Tearing mercilessly into hearts with canines and fangs.

“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. 

“— and it’s not even like she means to do it, you know? Like she calls and it starts normal, totally normal, we’re talking about groceries or whatever, and then BAM, like clockwork, it’s ‘so how are your evaluations going’ and ‘have you thought about residency yet’ and I’m just sitting there like… yeah, mom, funny you mention it, I think about it all the time, constantly, obsessively, in a way that is probably not healthy for my long-term psychological stability.”

You cast a sidelong glance at Dr. Abbot, brows arched expectantly, silently imploring him to jump in and extinguish the slow, smoldering anxiety that has spontaneously combusted in your mind and body and soul.

He doesn’t bite.

Instead, he offers you his trademark stoic gaze, effectively deflating your balloon of expectation on impact.

“Your evaluations will be fine,” he says shortly. “You’ll match. Now type, please.”

“Sorry, charting, right. Doing that now,” you mumble, snapping dutifully back to the glowing screen like a golden retriever who briefly forgot what sit meant.

Your fingers move with genuine, industrious purpose for approximately three whole seconds before inevitably, you’re speaking again.

“But, then she mentions marriage and having children, multiple children, as if one isn’t intimidating enough, because why wouldn’t she? Perfect natural segue. And now all I can think about is this random fertility rabbit hole I fell into afterward. Which, by the way, was a lot. That was a lot of information. Like I’m literally sitting here as we speak, losing eggs by the second, practically fossilizing before your very eyes.”

You hear him release a short huff of air. Can picture him pressing his forefinger into the space between his browsz

“Kid, you’re — what, all of twenty-something?”

You wave a dismissive hand, not looking up. “Twenty-something with eggs dropping like New Year’s confetti at midnight. Tick tock.”

“You’re not even close to egg depletion,” he says dryly, nudging your chair slightly with his foot. “Trust your attending on this.” 

You roll your eyes, immensely grateful he can’t see your face.

“Easy for you to say. Your biology lets you remain fertile until, like, the heat death of the universe.”

“Wasn’t aware you’d taken such a keen interest in my reproductive potential.”

You swivel around in your chair without warning, knees knocking lightly into the desk as you tip your chin up at him.

“Well, listen, I was actually thinking that if I hit a certain age and still have no romantic prospects, we could make a pact,” you muse. “You generously contribute your objectively excellent genetic blueprint, I carry the resulting small human. Voila, instant legacy preserved. It's a win-win.”

The words have barely left your lips when Abbot nearly sputters coffee all over his pressed white coat. His hand shoots up swiftly, coughing discreetly as his gaze flicks sharply, incredulously, up at you.

“Jesus — at least give me a heads-up before you proposition me for genetic samples,” he mutters under his breath, eyeing you cautiously now, like you’re a lab specimen who’s suddenly started speaking fluent Latin.

You gasp, pulling a hand to your chest. “Dr. Abbot, please — I was referring exclusively to a very professional sperm donation arrangement. Entirely above board, paperwork involved, sterile conditions, the whole thing.”

“Of course,” he drawls, skepticism coloring his voice. “Nothing questionable about that.”

“It’s all part of my incredibly thorough contingency plan. That I created last night,” you assure him, nodding fervently. “Proactive and forward-thinking, exactly the qualities you’re always nagging me to develop. See? I listen.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, fixing you with a stern, pensive look. “Face the screen.”

You obediently face the screen, fingers tapping out a half-hearted sentence once again, before your curiosity inevitably gets the best of you again, eyes flicking over your should to peer at him through lowered lashes.

“Not hearing a hard no,” you hum.

“It is a hard no,” he starts, leaning in to talk against your ear, “because If I decide to help you out with that particular problem, it’s going to be the old-fashioned way.”

He straightens smoothly, unbothered as he walks away, leaving your heart stumbling over itself in dizzy little circles.

@ichor-and-symbiosis l BNHA 

@hitoshishinzo l BNHA

@hisoknen​ l BNHA 

@vermiliren l Haikyuu 

@bakatenshii l Haikyuu, BNHA

@whumperooni​ l BNHA

@cannibalchan​ l BNHA

@sawamooora​ l Haikyuu, ATLA

@kazooli​ l BNHA

@monst​ l BNHA 

@blahkugo​ l BNHA, Haikyuu