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There was a strand of my hair tickling my cheekbone. I brushed at it quickly but it fell back in place. I tucked it behind my ear, but it was too short.
I could feel it touching me.
Stop it. Stop it. Too much. Stop it. Stop. It.
I flexed my hands out, knuckles stretched white.
Bobby pin. Yeah.
I was halfway to Dr. Collins before I realized my mistake. Her hair couldn’t be longer than an inch. Honestly, that didn’t seem like a bad idea. I touched my tight bun self consciously. But it was blonde…my parents always said it was my best feature. Looks didn’t factor into my career. I shouldn’t be vain. It didn’t make sense. I wasn’t that pretty, I didn’t have as much to care about.
Vain. Too vain. Arrogant? Narcissist? Malignant Narcissism: Constant Self Thought, Lack of Critique. Small breasts. Small Mouth. Pale. Pointed nose.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Squeezed my fingers.
“You good, Tic?”
“Dr. Santos!” I smiled, “Hi!”
She smiled, shaking her head, “Hey to you too.”
I tilted my head, “Do you have a Bobby pin?”
She frowned, “Why would I have a Bobby pin? You picking a lock somewhere?” She looked over at me, “Actually, I couldn’t see you with a parking ticket, you’re quite the good two shoes.”
“Thanks,” I said, “I actually don’t drive, but I appreciate it. Do you-do you know where I could get a Bobby pin?”
She looked up at the ceiling, “Uh….probably Dr. McKay. With her bangs, I’m sure she’s got some kind of maintenance kit.”
“Great, thank you so much,” I hesitated, “Also-“
“What?”
“You call me Tic?” I smiled, “I, uh—I don’t have Tourette’s. Or the bugs. Not a lot of tall grass around here.”
“Oh,” she nodded slowly, “Well you could have fooled me.”
I looked over my scrubs, “You see something?”
“Jesus, Tic,” she said, “I’m not even going to explain, ask Langdon.” She grabbed a clipboard, “You’re so buddy buddy anyways.”
What did I do? Was she mad at me? Was I being rude?
“Right, well-“ I rocked on my heels, “See you around.”
That strand of hair brushed against my face. Agony.
Bobby pin. Right.
By the time I had found my Bobby pin and wiggled it in (Bobby pins slipped easily), I came back to Langdon practically tearing apart the ER.
“—I know I can use Santos, but I set her with Collins on the maggot thing,” he said, leaning over the desk, “Besides, it’s interesting.”
Evans was shaking her head, “Don’t hassle me, you little punk. You lost her, you find her.”
“I didn’t lose her-“
I had been standing across the room, twisting my ring finger, trying to find a space to interrupt. They talked fast, and I hadn’t even figured out what to say.
Sorry for getting lost? Too whiny. Sorry, I’m here now? Better. Maybe a bad excuse, but if I said it nice enough, maybe he’d-
Langdon, who had been pacing, craning his head to look at patient beds, finally saw me. He exhaled, scrubbing his hand over his face. Unsanitary.
“Oh, thank God, Mel,” he said, “C’mere.”
I joined him as he walked to a patient room.
“Twenty-seven year old Dana Lewis came in unconscious from head trauma,” he said, “We’re trying to figure out if it was accidental or if her boyfriend did it.”
“Did her boyfriend take her?” I asked.
“No, her boyfriend’s long distance, he was there over the weekend. Her friend let herself into the apartment today, found her lying on the kitchen floor in a puddle of day old blood. Took her here,” he exhaled, “and here we are.”
“If her boyfriend had brought her, we’d know it wasn’t him,” I said.
“What’s your reasoning for that?”
I tilted my head, “Well if he was…abusive enough to beat her and leave her to die, he wouldn’t take her to the hospital, right?”
Langdon nodded slowly, “Yeah, that makes sense. Smart.”
“But since he apparently wasn’t there, or he was and left her bleeding?” I shrugged, “I don’t know.”
“See, I knew you would love this,” he said, getting that look in his eye, “It’s going to be a challenge for us.”
Langdon reminded me a bit of my childhood Doberman when he talked about interesting cases, like he was stalking rabbits in my backyard and they had just made the wrong move.
It was almost bloodlust.
But it would have been hypocritical to judge.
“Right,” I nodded, “It’s like a murder mystery, with a living body.”
“Well,” he snapped on gloves, “You can play Sherlock and I’ll be your Watson.”
What?
I stopped, holding my latex gloves, staring at him. His dark hair flopped over his face. He was lifting up the patient but straightened, looking me over.
“Mel?”
My face split slowly into a smile, “I get to be Sherlock?”
He nodded, confused, “I mean—if you want to?”
“No-no,” I shook my head, grinning, “I-I want to be.”
“Okay,” he said, “Well, we’ve got her stabilized, but we’re going to be looking for signs of domestic violence. Give me some criteria.”
“Um,” I counted off my fingers, “Uh, x-rays for frequent breaks. Arms, legs, jaw, eye socket. Tox screen, if it’s not domestic violence it might be from a substance. And a physical exam, to look for any bruising or injury.”
“X-rays are going to be a while, they’re back up today,” he said, “Same for tox screen, but we might as well get the physical done now. Let’s work bottom to top. Start where it’s least likely to be a secondary injury from the fall.”
We worked over her lower half, looking for bruising or scarring that would indicate abuse. It was almost fun.
“You know, I like to think I’m Sherlock,” I said, “But I’m probably Watson. He’s the doctor, and he’s very straightforward. Sherlock’s the genius detective.”
“Isn’t Sherlock an asshole, though?” he asked, “Superiority complex, thrill seeker, not to mention the whole drug addict thing?”
I smiled, “But it’s Sherlock. He can be a little bad, if he’s still the best there is.”
“You want to be the best there is?” He asked as he worked his fingers up her arm, feeling for scars.
“I…” my voice trailed off, “I want to be the best I can be. I want that to be better than most people. I want to be one of few.”
“You’re better than me,” he said, “I have to be singular, in everything. It’s like a solo act nightmare.”
“I like the idea of someone knowing how I feel,” I said, “If I’m the greatest, how am I going to relate to anyone? I’d have all these problems, and no one would be able to understand.”
He looked up at me, “That’s what stops you?”
I helped him turn her on her side, looking over her back and stomach, “I know it isn’t cool, but…” I swallowed, “I want to have friends here. I want to be a doctor who helped, not a doctor who just helped herself.”
“You have friends here, Mel,” he said, meeting my eyes, “And I feel very certain saying that you’ll get your wish.”
Blue eyes. Dimples. Being nice? Being a good boss? Joking?
“You too,” I murmured.
He laughed, “We’ll have to wait and see on that one.”
He lifted her head up slowly, gathering her hair away from her, “Point out anything you can see if you think I missed it.”
I straightened my glasses, leaning in, “No, I-I really can’t see anything out of the ordinary. Other than the head trauma, she seems healthy enou—“
I squinted, “There.”
“Where?” He moved around the bed, standing next to me.
I pushed her hair away from her neck, “There, an inch under the ear.”
He leaned in for a closer look.
“There’s more farther in the back,” I said, “It might be fingerprints, if she was grabbed from behind like so-“
Without thinking, I reached out and touched his neck.
He flinched and I yanked my hand back. I was wearing gloves, but his skin was burning hot.
Sorry sorry sorry sorry.
He looked over his shoulder, breathing heavily. I tucked my hand behind my back, flexing and unflexing it. “Sorry,” I said, “I’m really sorry. I didn’t-I wasn’t thinking.”
“S’okay,” he said, “You just…” he rubbed his eyes, “scared the shit out of me.”
“I really shouldn’t have done that.”
“You can do that,” he said, “Just ask, it’s okay.”
What’s that look on his face? Irritated? Angry? What’s the face people make when they’re touched non consensually? Non-consensually…did I touch him? Is he uncomfortable?
I stepped back farther, my back hitting the wall.
Scary.
I squeezed my wrist hard. Fingers tight enough to cut off circulation. It made me focus. It made me breathe.
“Uh…” he ran a hand through his hair, “I saw some of those bruises on the other side, I wouldn’t worry about it.”
I blinked, “Seriously? But if we’re looking for signs of domestic violence, shouldn’t we note bruises?”
“Not those, no.” He ripped off his gloves, tossing them in the trash, “Clean physical. No injuries, no pupil dilation, nothing in the mouth or pelvic region.”
I followed him, “It’s not a pressure bruise, though, that’s what confuses me. And the shape is off. If someone threw a fifty pound quarter at her, I could see that making a similar mark. But I’ve never seen one of these before.”
“Really?” He raised his eyebrows, “You didn’t see that in your medical textbooks?”
“Athletes practice cupping, which is suction for the muscles,” I said, walking faster to keep up with him, “It’s supposed to be soothing, but I can’t imagine she was doing that. It’s too small and uneven.”
“You’re getting warmer,” he said.
“You won’t tell me?”
“And ruin the fun?”
Am I the joke? “You’re telling a joke?”
“Yes and no.”
“I hate when I don’t understand you.”
He stopped, “You really don’t?”
I was really getting frustrated, “Of course I don’t. I’m a medical student. I don’t know everything you senior residents know. I’m trying.”
“Hey,” he was finally being serious, “I thought you were trying to be funny. I didn’t know you were being genuine. I’m sorry.”
I exhaled, “Sorry. But you can’t just tell me?”
His eyes widened slightly, “I-“
I tilted my head, “Please?”
He kept almost saying something. Opening his mouth and then thinking better of it. If I wasn’t worried about scaring him, I would have grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.
I wouldn’t have. But I would have wanted to.
We were standing in the middle of a hallway, and he couldn’t bother to explain some stupid bruises.
“Ask one of your friends,” he said finally and left.
I watched him go.
Sometimes I wish I was meaner.
“Dr. Santos?” I tapped her carefully on the shoulder.
She turned, looking me up and down, “You’re red. Flu?”
“What? No,” I shook my head, “Something weird happened with Dr. Langdon.”
Her eyes narrowed and she stepped closer, “What? Tell me.”
“It was a physical issue.”
“A physical issue?” She put her hands on her hips, “What are you telling me? Did he play Grab The Scrubs?”
I frowned, “I don’t know what that is, but I’m pretty sure no.”
She rolled her eyes, “So what was it?”
“A patient had some bruising around the neck,” I said quietly, “And he just brushed it off. He said it wasn’t going on the physical.”
She folded her arms, “You mean like hickeys?”
“Pardon?”
“Hickeys,” she repeated, “You’ve heard the term.”
“Yeah,” I said.
No.
“Like in music and stuff,” I continued, “Meghan Thee Stallion, that kind of thing. Why?”
She was looking at me weirdly, “I’m going to regret asking, but what do you think a hickey is?”
I bit my lip.
Her eyebrows crept up to her forehead.
“Some kind of…sex act?”
“You have got to be kidding me, Tic.”
“Once again, I don’t have Tourette’s—“
“No, but you might be severely reclused.”
“—it’s potentially very insensitive to call me— wait,” I looked at her again, “It’s not a sex act?”
She shrugged, “Yes and no.”
“That’s what Langdon said!” I rubbed my temples, “I can’t get a straight answer out of anyone today, it’s…infuriating.”
“Get a Dr. Pepper with me,” she said, “You’re paying because I don’t get paid enough for this shit.”
I fed two dollars into the vending machine and only when she had taken her first weary sip did she ask me:
“You do understand sex, right?”
“I’m twenty five.”
“But no hickeys? That’s a sad twenty five.” She sighed, “I think your issue is terminology. They don’t really discuss it in Sex Ed. It’s foreplay.”
“Right,” I said, “Can I take notes or is this-“
She laughed sharply, “You won’t need them, trust me.”
“Oh.”
“Kissing‘s fun,” she said, “Sometimes you want it to hurt. Sometimes it’s not on the lips.”
I swallowed, “But it’s bruising.”
“Hurting feels good to some people,” she tilted the can back, “But you probably wouldn’t know about that, Tic.”
I closed my eyes, twisting my fingers.
When the lights flicker and burn, when noise scratches and burrows its way into my brain, when my clothes tear into me, sometimes I’ll just wrap my arms around myself and squeeze myself back together.
Or I’ll just grab a wrist, wrap my fingers around, and grip just hard enough to feel the blood prickle at my fingertips. It wakes me up. It makes me breathe.
I was doing that now.
My eyes were open. I was breathing hard.
“Why are you being mean to me?” I asked suddenly.
She threw the can in the trash. Not the recycling. “I’m helping you out, Tic, I’m not getting you a date. Don’t blame me.”
Bitch.
I had never really thought that about someone. But she was being rude.
“I don’t,” I said, “Bye.”
I left.
I found Langdon filing paperwork. He looked up and went pale.
“Hey-“
“I want to be angry at you in private,” I said.
“Come on,” he said, standing up, “Let’s not do this where Evans can beat my ass.”
He took me through a hallway, unlocking a door.
“This is a storage closet.”
“So what?”
“It’s small.”
“Did you want a gladiator stage?”
I walked in and he locked the door behind us. I couldn’t stand farther than two feet from him. It made my head spin, probably thanks to the chemicals stacked to the ceiling. I rubbed my temples.
“I asked Santos.”
“Santos?” He said, eyebrows raising.
“She gave me more of an answer than you did.”
“Well now I feel terrible.”
“I am…” I hesitated, “okay with that.”
The expression on his face was undoubtedly confusion. He had his hands, pacing and walking like some caged animal. I used to try and stay out of his way. But I was standing still, forcing him to walk around me.
“You didn’t treat me like an adult,” I blurted out.
“I know,” he held out a hand to appease me, “I shouldn’t do that. But-“
“I know how men think of me,” I said, “I know what I seem like. Like I’m six years old.”
He stopped, turning to me.
“I am not a child,” I said harshly, “I am a medical student, I’m going to be a doctor, I’m smart. Okay? I’m very smart. I understand sex. I understand…foreplay, okay? I get it. So don’t act like I’m some sort of recluse.”
He was still silent.
His eyes burn.
I tucked a hand behind my back. My fingers gripped hard.
“I’m not a recluse. I went to college.” I continued, don’t stutter, “I studied. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” He asked.
My jaw clenched, “I’m still mad, but I don’t want to sound stupid.”
“You don’t sound stupid,” he rubbed his temples, “You’re very, very smart.”
“Thank you.”
“But you’re wrong.”
My blood was flowing, boiling. I opened my mouth, “You acted like I was-“
“My actions were patronizing, you’re right,” he said quietly, “You’re not a child. You’re a woman.”
He looked at me, “And I’m a man.”
“I know how-“
“Yes.” He cut me off, “You know what men think about you. Let me tell you what I think about you.”
I was quiet.
“I could tell you a thousand times a day how intelligent you are, how capable you are,” he said, “These past six months, you’ve proved to be the best medical student I’ve ever met. But I’m not here-“ he stepped closer, “To tell you things you already know.”
“I didn’t know you thought-“
“You’re attractive,” he said, inches away from me, “You attract me.”
Oh.
No.
“I don’t mean to,” I whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he murmured, “It’s not like I had a choice. And of course you had no idea. Of course. Why would you?”
He rubbed his eyes, exhaled, “This is insane. I’m scaring you.”
“You’re scaring me,” I agreed, “But…”
His eyes lifted to mine.
“We need to talk about this,” I said, “We should be honest.”
Okay.
“Okay,” he said, “I can be honest.”
“What did I do?” I asked, “How can I stop this?”
“Probably quit, leave and never return,” he said, “I’d probably find you anyway, so what’s the point?” He closed his eyes, “That was aggressive. I’m not-I won’t—I’m in control.”
“You’re in control.”
He exhaled shakily, “I think I should do the talking.”
“Okay.”
Okay.
“You were—are very sweet,” he said, “It makes me nervous. It makes it hard to do my job. I knew very quickly that I had a problem, you were going to be a problem for me.”
A problem? How would he solve it?
“But I couldn’t avoid you. I didn’t want to avoid you. I wanted to interest you. I wanted to excite you.” He said, “It might have made you a good doctor, but it was done with the worst intentions.”
He paused, “The look on your face, when you see what I see, when you-when you feel what I feel, it’s magnetic. It’s perfect,” he breathed, “It’s everything I want.”
“You think I’m pretty?”
My voice was so small compared to his. He filled up the room. There was barely any space for me.
His lips parted, “I—yes. Did I not tell you?”
He was so close to me, “You’re beautiful. You’re distracting. I think about you too much.”
I couldn’t look at him.
“You can understand why discussing hickeys is difficult with you,” he murmured, “Because I see them, and I hear your voice, you’re touching me and I think—“
“Oh.”
Oh.
“Yeah.”
He was very careful not to touch me. He looked like he wanted to. But I could leave. The door was right there. I could leave and I knew he would never speak about it. But that look in his eyes.
That bloodlust.
“Pressure,” I said, “It’s…soothing to me. Physical pressure.”
I raised my hand, showing the red outlines of my fingers. He slowly reached out, letting his hand close around them.
His hands were much larger than mine.
“You make me nervous,” I said, “You scare me. You excite me.”
He stepped closer. His grip tightened.
“You interest me,” I whispered.
You make me breathe.
But before I could exhale, he was on me.
Mouth pressed to mine, hands cradling my jaw and pulling, pulling me ever closer. Kissing from him felt like labor, like work that he was undertaking. This wasn’t casual, it was barely restrained.
Kissing.
I kissed him back as best I could. I ran my fingers through his hair, I memorized the curve of his cheekbones with my thumbs, I learned him. He learned me. He learned me quickly.
“Mel,” he said, and he made it sound like something lovely, “Mel.”
“Langdon,” I said as he kissed down my jaw, “Pressure helps me. It helps me focus.”
I ran my fingers through his hair. Over and over again.
He squeezed my wrist.
“I know.”