Archive of Our Own ^beta

He should have gone to law school.

Being a lawyer was just as prestigious as a doctor - would have made his mother just as proud - but for some fucking reason, he had gone down the medical route.

Lawyers didn't have to deal with sixteen CTs, eight ultrasounds, and a pending MRI.

Why, dear lord, did they keep ordering this shit? Was the ER doctor an idiot?

His eyes darted down to the 'ordering provider' section. Ah. Borros Baratheon. Yeah, he was an idiot.

Aemond couldn't help feeling sorry for himself. He couldn't help feeling sorry for his techs.

The bass line from Metallica's "Master of Puppets" thrummed through his headphones as he clicked through yet another abdomen CT. Normal. Normal. Probable constipation - he'd recommend a laxative and discharge. Next.

The reading room was tomb-quiet at night, which was exactly how Aemond preferred it. No residents asking stupid questions. No attendings making small talk. No pharmaceutical reps with their fake smiles and free lunch. Just him, his coffee, and a worklist that seemed to regenerate like a fucking hydra.

His phone buzzed. A text from the ER: Need prelim on bed 7 RUQ US ASAP.

Aemond pulled off his headphones with more force than necessary and pulled up the study. The images were still uploading - he could see them populating one by one in PACS. Gallbladder. Liver. Right kidney.

The technique was clean. Proper depth, good gain, labeled correctly. He didn't even need to see the tech's name to know who had done it.

The night shift sonographer had started as a student a year and a half ago, green as grass and scared of her own shadow. He'd been harder on her than necessary during those first few months - not out of cruelty, but because she'd needed it. Half the students that rotated through were lazy, entitled, convinced that "good enough" was actually good enough.

She hadn't been like that.

She'd taken his criticism with her chin up and her mouth shut, then came back the next shift better. When he'd told her the clips were too short, she'd made them longer. When he'd said her labels were sloppy, she'd fixed them. When he'd explained - once, because he didn't repeat himself - exactly how he wanted a kidney measured, she'd done it that way ever since.

Now her studies were consistently the best that came through. Clean, thorough, properly protocoled. She knew when to call with criticals and when to handle things herself. She knew what he needed to see before he had to ask for it.

The upload finished. Aemond scrolled through the clips, his eye tracking over the grainy gray images with practiced efficiency. Gallbladder wall thickening, pericholecystic fluid, positive sonographic Murphy's sign documented in the notes.

Acute cholecystitis. Pretty straightforward.

He picked up the phone and dialed the ER back. "This is Dr. Targaryen. The right upper quadrant on bed seven is positive. They need surgery, not me. Go bother general."

He hung up before they could respond and pulled his headphones back on. The worklist hadn't gotten any shorter.

—

Three floors down, she was cleaning the ultrasound probe with more attention than it probably required.

The gallbladder had been textbook. Inflamed, angry, making the patient miserable - exactly the kind of case that felt satisfying to catch. She'd spent an extra few minutes getting perfect clips of the wall thickening, had made sure to document the positive Murphy's because she knew Dr. Targaryen would want it in writing.

"You're back from the ER?"

She turned to find Jeyne, one of the CT techs, leaning in the doorway of the ultrasound room. Her scrubs were wrinkled and there was what looked like contrast stain on her sleeve.

"Just finished a gallbladder," she said, coiling the probe cord neatly. "You?"

"Baratheon ordered another pan-scan." Jeyne rolled her eyes. "Third one tonight. I swear to god, that man thinks a CT will solve all of life's problems."

"Did Targaryen say anything?"

"Oh, he definitely said something. I could hear him from the reading room." Jeyne grinned. "Pretty sure he called Baratheon a 'waste of a medical license' in the report impression. The attending is going to make him change it on Monday, but still."

She tried not to smile. Failed.

"You know you're the only one who doesn't hate him, right?" Jeyne asked, not unkindly. "The rest of us think he's a nightmare."

"He's not that bad."

"He made Myrielle cry last month."

"Myrielle labeled a right kidney as a left kidney. That's pretty bad."

Jeyne shrugged. "Still. The man has the bedside manner of a cactus."

"Good thing he doesn't have to talk to patients."

"Good thing," Jeyne agreed. She pushed off from the doorframe. "I'm going to grab food before the next trauma rolls in. Want anything from the vending machine?"

"I'm good."

Jeyne left, and she finished cleaning up the room, restocking gel and wiping down the machine. The hospital was always strange on weekend nights - too quiet in some places, too chaotic in others. She'd gotten used to it over the past year, the odd rhythm of it. The way time felt different after midnight, stretching and compressing in weird ways.

Her phone buzzed. A text from her friend Anya: how's the dungeon? [21:33]

She typed back: same as always. dark. full of sick people. [21:34]

and your favorite grumpy radiologist? [21:34]

also the same. [21:34]

when are you going to admit you have a crush on him [21:37]

She didn't dignify that with a response.

—

Two a.m. brought a trauma.

Aemond was halfway through a chest CT when the phone rang. He knew before answering that it would be bad news - nobody called at two a.m. with good news.

"Reading room."

"Dr. Targaryen, we've got a level one coming in. MVC, multiple injuries. They're going to need a full trauma series."

"How long?"

"Five minutes."

Aemond saved his current dictation and pulled up a fresh cup of coffee that had gone cold an hour ago. He drank it anyway. The Metallica in his headphones shifted to "For Whom the Bell Tolls" and he thought, grimly, that it was appropriate.

The trauma arrived with the usual chaos - he could hear it even from the reading room, the thunder of footsteps and shouted orders. The CT scanner hummed to life and studies started populating his worklist like malevolent flowers.

Head. C-spine. Chest. Abdomen. Pelvis.

He opened the head CT first. Subdural hematoma, right side, concerning for midline shift. He grabbed the phone.

"This is Dr. Targaryen. The head CT on your trauma is critical. Subdural hematoma with possible herniation. They need neurosurgery now, not in five minutes. Now."

The chest showed rib fractures, pneumothorax, pulmonary contusions. The abdomen had free fluid - likely blood. He was three minutes into dictating the chest when his door opened.

He didn't look up. "I'm busy."

"I know." Her voice was quiet but steady. "They're asking for a FAST exam."

Now he looked up. She was standing in the doorway in her navy scrubs, hair pulled back, looking tired but alert. The ultrasound machine was visible behind her in the hallway.

"They want you to do it in the trauma bay?"

"Yes."

Aemond pulled off his headphones. "It's going to be a mess in there."

"I know."

"You'll have about ninety seconds before they take the patient to OR."

"I know."

He studied her for a moment. She didn't look nervous, which was good. He'd seen experienced techs fall apart in trauma situations, too much noise and blood and pressure. But she'd done FAST exams before, had learned to work fast and clean even when everything around her was chaos.

"Get views of all four quadrants. If there's free fluid, I need to see it."

"I will."

"And for god's sake, don't let them contaminate your probe."

The corner of her mouth twitched. "Wouldn't dream of it."

She left, and Aemond turned back to his monitors. The trauma imaging was time-sensitive - every second mattered. He dictated rapidly, his voice clinical and precise, documenting injuries that would likely mean hours of surgery for some poor orthopedic and trauma team.

His computer pinged. The FAST exam was uploading.

He opened it immediately. The clips were short - they had to be in a trauma situation - but comprehensive. Right upper quadrant: free fluid around the liver. Left upper quadrant: fluid around the spleen. Pelvis: more fluid in the pouch of Douglas.

Positive FAST. The patient was bleeding internally.

He called down to the trauma bay. "Positive FAST. They need the OR now."

Then he went back to dictating, the drums from his headphones providing a steady rhythm while he worked through the carnage on his screen.

—

By six a.m., the trauma patient was out of surgery and the worklist had finally, mercifully, started to shrink.

Aemond was dictating a routine chest X-ray when she appeared in his doorway again. This time she was holding two cups of coffee.

"Peace offering," she said.

He looked at her, then at the coffee. "For what?"

"I heard you called Dr. Baratheon a waste of a medical license."

"I said his clinical decision-making was a waste of medical resources. There's a difference."

"Is there, though?"

She stepped into the reading room and set one of the coffees on his desk, well away from the keyboard. The room smelled like old coffee and the particular electronic scent that came from computers running too hot for too long.

Aemond picked up the cup. It was still warm, probably from the good coffee cart on the first floor, not the sludge from the cafeteria. "You didn't have to do this."

"I know."

She was looking at his monitors, where he had six studies open in different windows. Her eyes tracked over them with the practiced ease of someone who spent their days looking at medical imaging.

"Is that the trauma from earlier?"

"Yes."

"How bad?"

"Bad." He took a sip of the coffee. It was black, no sugar. Exactly how he took it. "They'll live, but it's going to be a long recovery."

She was quiet for a moment, and Aemond found himself studying her in the dim light of the reading room. She looked tired - they all looked tired on night shift - but there was something else. A kind of satisfaction, maybe. The FAST exam had been good work, done under pressure.

"Your clips were clean," he said.

She blinked. "What?"

"The FAST exam. The clips were clean. Good quality, even with the time constraint."

Something shifted in her expression. Surprise, then pleasure, carefully controlled. She knew better than to look too pleased when he gave a compliment - he gave them rarely enough that making a big deal of it would be awkward for both of them.

"Thank you," she said simply.

"You remembered to angle for the Morrison's pouch."

"You told me to."

"Four months ago."

"You don't repeat yourself. I had to remember."

The corner of his mouth might have twitched. Might have. "Smart."

She smiled then, just a little. "I'm going to take that as high praise coming from you."

"You should."

They stood there for a moment in the quiet of the reading room, the only sound the hum of computers and the distant beep of monitors from somewhere else in the hospital. Aemond's headphones were around his neck, and he realized he'd taken them off when she came in. He couldn't remember doing it.

"I should let you work," she said finally.

"Probably."

But she didn't move immediately, and neither did he. There was something in the air, some kind of understanding that came from working the same godforsaken shift for months, from learning each other's rhythms and habits and standards. He knew how she scanned and she knew how he read, and somewhere in that knowledge was a kind of professional intimacy that Aemond didn't have with anyone else in the hospital.

"Will you be here next weekend?" she asked.

"Where else would I be?"

"I don't know. Out having a life?"

"Overrated."

She laughed, quiet and genuine, and Aemond felt something strange in his chest. Not unpleasant. Just unexpected.

"Same time, same place," she said, and headed for the door.

"Your gallbladder earlier was good too," he called after her.

She paused in the doorway, looked back at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Textbook technique."

Her smile was bright enough to light up the dim hallway. "You're getting soft in your old age, Dr. Targaryen."

"I'm thirty-two."

"Ancient."

She left before he could respond, and Aemond sat there staring at the empty doorway for longer than was probably appropriate. Then he pulled his headphones back on, took another sip of the coffee she'd brought him, and went back to work.

The night shift stretched ahead, still hours to go before the day team arrived. But somehow it felt less tedious than usual.

—

The next Saturday, she arrived for her shift to find a chaos in the ER that exceeded even the usual weekend mayhem.

"What happened?" she asked Jeyne, who was practically running toward the CT scanner.

"Multi-car pileup on the highway. We've got six incoming." Jeyne didn't slow down. "Targaryen is going to lose his fucking mind."

She dumped her bag in the ultrasound office and checked her assignment. Two inpatient studies already waiting, and the night had barely started. She grabbed her portable machine and headed for the floors.

The first study was a renal ultrasound on a patient with rising creatinine. Straightforward, unremarkable. The second was a pelvic on a woman with post-menopausal bleeding. Also unremarkable, but she took extra clips anyway, measured the endometrial stripe twice to be sure.

By the time she got back to the department, it was past midnight and her phone was already buzzing with more orders.

She found Dr. Targaryen in the reading room, bathed in the blue glow of his monitors. His eyepatch was stark black against his pale skin, and his silver hair was slightly disheveled, like he'd been running his hands through it. There were three empty coffee cups on his desk.

"How bad is it?" she asked from the doorway.

He looked up. Blinked, like he was surprised to see her. "Define bad."

"Scale of one to Baratheon."

His mouth did that thing that wasn't quite a smile. "Baratheon ordered a CT for hiccups last week."

"He didn't."

"He did. I rejected it."

She stepped into the room. "So where are we on the scale?"

"Somewhere between a root canal and a tax audit." He gestured at his screens. "Twenty-three studies pending. More coming."

"Jesus."

"He's not answering my prayers either."

She glanced at the monitors. Chest X-rays, CT scans, an MRI of a spine that looked comprehensively fucked. "What do you need?"

Aemond studied her for a moment. "I need the ER to stop ordering scans. But since that's not happening, I need you to stay sharp. It's going to be a long night."

"I'm always sharp."

"I know." He said it simply, matter-of-fact. "That's why I'm not worried about your studies. It's everyone else I'm worried about."

Her phone buzzed. Another order: RUQ ultrasound for - you guessed it - right upper quadrant pain.

"Duty calls," she sighed.

"Make it quick. Something tells me that won't be the last one."

He was right. Over the next three hours, she did five ultrasounds, each one called in as stat or urgent. A possible DVT - negative. A transplant kidney - normal flow, normal resistive indices. Another gallbladder - some stones. A pregnant patient with bleeding - viable pregnancy, good heartbeat, probable subchorionic hemorrhage.

Each time she finished a study, she uploaded it to PACS and waited for Dr. Targaryen's call or his dictation to appear. His preliminary reads were fast, accurate, and tersely worded. No signs of acute cholecystitis, mobile gallstones seen. No DVT identified. Viable intrauterine pregnancy, subchorionic hemorrhage noted.

She was restocking the ultrasound room when her phone rang. Not a text - an actual call. She looked at the screen. Reading room extension.

"Hello?"

"I need you to repeat the transplant kidney." Dr. Targaryen's voice was clipped.

Her stomach dropped. "What was wrong with it?"

"Nothing. The images are fine. But the patient's creatinine jumped two points in the last hour. I need a comparison study."

"Oh." Relief, then focus. "I'll head up now."

"And take extra greyscale cines of the anastamosis this time. Zoom in as much as you can. I doubt that there’s thrombus, but still."

"Got it."

She grabbed her machine and headed back upstairs. The transplant patient was in the ICU, looking miserable and exhausted. She explained what she needed to do - quickly, because the patient didn't need a long conversation - and started scanning.

The kidney looked the same as before. Good corticomedullary differentiation, no hydronephrosis. But when she put the Doppler on, something was off. The waveforms were dampened, the acceleration time prolonged.

Renal artery stenosis. Possible rejection.

She took extra clips, measured everything twice, documented the Doppler parameters meticulously. When she uploaded the study, she called the reading room.

"Dr. Targaryen."

"It's me. The repeat transplant kidney is uploaded."

"And?"

"Dampened waveforms. Prolonged acceleration time. RI is elevated."

There was a pause. She could hear the clicking of his mouse. "Good catch."

"You're the one who ordered the repeat."

"You're the one who did it correctly." More clicking. "I'm calling transplant. They'll probably take the patient back to IR."

"Okay."

She expected him to hang up, but he didn't. There was another pause, and then: "How many studies have you done tonight?"

"Six. No, seven."

"When was the last time you ate?"

The question surprised her. "Um. I had lunch before my shift?"

"That was eight hours ago."

"I'm fine."

"You're going to pass out if you don't eat something."

"I'm not going to pass out."

"Humor me. Go to the cafeteria. Get food. Take twenty minutes."

It wasn't a suggestion. She found herself smiling despite her exhaustion. "Are you worried about me, Dr. Targaryen?"

"I'm worried about the quality of your studies if you're hypoglycemic."

"Sure."

"I'm serious."

"I know. I'll get food."

"Good."

He hung up.

She stood there in the ICU hallway, staring at her phone, feeling something warm and complicated in her chest. Then she headed for the cafeteria.

—

At five in the morning, she was starting to understand what Dr. Targaryen meant about the night shift being endless.

The cafeteria food had helped - some kind of sad sandwich and a bag of chips - but she was still running on fumes and caffeine. The inpatients had finally slowed down, but the ER studies kept coming. Leg swelling. Abdominal pain. More leg swelling. 

She was finishing up the bilateral lower extremity when her machine's screen flickered.

Then went dark.

"No," she said to the empty room. "No, no, no."

She tried turning it off and on again. Nothing. The screen stayed black, the machine completely unresponsive.

She checked her phone. Two more studies pending.

Fuck.

She called the reading room.

"Dr. Targaryen."

"My machine just died."

There was a pause. "Define died."

"Won't turn on. Black screen. I think it's the power supply."

She heard him exhale. "Can you use one of the backup machines?"

"Portable one is being serviced, and the five a.m. tech just got here and took the second one."

"Of course." He was quiet for a moment, and she could practically hear him thinking. "All right. How many studies do you have pending?"

"Two. Both inpatient, not stat."

"I'll push them to day shift."

"Are you sure? I can wait for one of the backup machines to free up—"

"You've done eight studies tonight. You're done."

"But—"

"That's not a request."

She closed her mouth. There was something in his voice that wasn't quite anger, but close. The protective edge that appeared when someone was about to argue with him about something he'd already decided.

"Okay," she said quietly.

"Call biomed about the machine. They'll want to know it's down."

"I will."

"And go home. You've been here for ten hours already."

"So have you."

"I have three more hours in my shift."

He hung up before she could respond.

She stood there in the ultrasound room, looking at her dead machine, feeling oddly like she'd disappointed him somehow. Which was stupid - the machine dying wasn't her fault. But she'd wanted to finish her studies, wanted to keep up with the insane pace of the night.

Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: This is Aemond Targaryen. You did good work tonight. The transplant save was particularly impressive. Go home. [05:07]

She stared at the message. Read it three times.

He'd never texted her before. She hadn't even known he had her number.

She typed back: How did you get my number? [05:11]

The response was immediate: Hospital directory. Go home. [05:11]

You go home. [05:12]

I will. In three hours. Unlike you, I can't leave my shift early. [05:13]

Touché. [05:15]

She saved his number in her phone. Hesitated over what to save it under. Settled on "Dr. Targaryen" because anything else felt presumptuous.

Then she called biomed, gathered her things, and headed out.

The parking garage was nearly empty at four-thirty in the morning. Her car was cold, the steering wheel icy under her hands. She turned on the heat and sat there for a moment, letting the engine warm up, thinking about the night.

Eight studies. One critical catch. A dead machine. And a text message from the meanest radiologist in the hospital telling her she'd done good work.

She pulled out her phone and looked at the message again. You did good work tonight.

Not "acceptable" or "adequate." Good.

She was smiling as she drove home.

—

The weekend after that, she arrived for her shift to find Dr. Targaryen already in the reading when she got there at 7p.m.. Usually, he would just be putting down his things.

"You're early," she said, pausing in the doorway.

He didn't look up from his screens. "Called me in early. Backlog from day shift."

"They left you with a backlog?"

"They always do."

She stepped into the room. He was wearing a different eyepatch today, she noticed. Still black, but the strap looked newer. His hair was damp, like he'd showered recently, and he smelled faintly of something clean and sharp. Cedar, maybe.

"Coffee?" she offered, holding up the cup she'd brought for herself.

"I have coffee."

"That's not coffee. That's cafeteria sludge."

He finally looked at her. "And what do you have?"

"The good stuff from the cart downstairs."

"The cart closes at six."

"I have my ways."

His eye narrowed slightly. "Did you flirt with the barista?"

"I smiled at the barista. There's a difference."

"Is there, though?"

She grinned. "Now you're just quoting me."

"It was a good line."

She set the coffee on his desk. "Drink it before it gets cold. I'll bill you later."

"How much do I owe you?"

"Your eternal gratitude."

"I don't do gratitude."

"Then your temporary tolerance of my presence."

"That, I can manage."

She settled into the spare chair in the corner - the one that was technically for residents but that she'd quietly claimed on weekend nights. Dr. Targaryen went back to his studies, and she pulled out her phone to check for any pending orders.

Nothing yet. The night was young.

"So," she said after a moment. "I heard a rumor about you."

His fingers paused on the keyboard. "I don't do rumors either."

"This one's pretty good."

"I doubt that."

"Someone said you used to play guitar."

He was very still. Then, "Where did you hear that?"

"Dalton mentioned it. Said he saw a picture of you from residency with a guitar."

"Dalton talks too much."

"So, it's true?"

Aemond took a drink of the coffee she'd brought him. She watched his expression carefully, trying to gauge his reaction. He looked uncomfortable, which was unusual. Dr. Targaryen was never uncomfortable.

"I played," he said finally. "Past tense."

"Why'd you stop?"

He gestured vaguely at his face. The eyepatch. "Depth perception issues."

"Oh." She felt stupid for asking. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Apologize. I hate when people apologize about it."

She closed her mouth. Nodded.

She hadn’t known that depth perception was a requirement to play the guitar.

They sat in silence for a moment. The reading room was quiet except for the hum of computers and the distant sound of a monitor beeping somewhere down the hall.

"What kind of music?" she asked.

"Does it matter?"

"I'm curious."

He sighed. "Rock, mostly. Some metal."

"Like what you listen to while you dictate?"

"How do you know what I listen to?"

"Your headphones aren't as soundproof as you think."

He looked at her, and she couldn't quite read his expression. "You pay attention."

"Part of the job."

"No," he said quietly. "It's not."

Her phone buzzed before she could figure out how to respond. An order for a pelvic ultrasound in the ER.

"Duty calls," she said, standing.

"Make it quick. Saturday nights are always chaos."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't call me sir."

"Yes, Dr. Targaryen."

She was at the door when he spoke again. "The coffee was good. Thank you."

She looked back at him. He was already focused on his screens again, but there was something in the set of his shoulders that seemed less tense than before.

"You're welcome," she said.

—

The chaos Dr. Targaryen predicted arrived around ten p.m. in the form of three separate traumas, two strokes, and a partridge in a fucking pear tree.

She did another FAST exam on one of the traumas - negative, thank god - and then got pulled to do a carotid ultrasound on one of the stroke patients. The carotid showed severe stenosis, and she barely had the study uploaded before she was called for yet another FAST.

This one was positive. Free fluid everywhere.

She called the reading room. "Positive FAST on bed twelve."

"How much free fluid?"

"A lot. All four quadrants."

"Fuck." She heard clicking. "I'm calling the OR. Good work."

Three studies later, she made it back to the ultrasound department to find Myrielle crying in the office.

"What happened?"

Myrielle looked up, her eyes red. "Dr. Targaryen called me."

Oh no. "What did he say?"

"He said my liver study was suboptimal and I needed to go back and get better images of the dome."

That didn't seem worth crying over, but then again, Myrielle was new. She'd only been off orientation for a month. "Did you go back?"

"Yes. And he called again and said it was adequate this time, but I needed to work on my technique."

"Okay?"

"He's so mean." Myrielle wiped her eyes. "I don't understand how you deal with him."

She thought about the coffee Dr. Targaryen had thanked her for. The text message he'd sent. The way he'd told her to go home when her machine died.

"He's not mean," she said. "He's exacting."

"That's the same thing."

"No, it's not. Mean is personal. Exacting is professional."

Myrielle sniffled. "It feels personal."

"That's because you're taking it personally." She grabbed a tissue box and handed it over. "Look, Dr. Targaryen has the highest standards of anyone in this hospital. If he says your images are suboptimal, he's not insulting you. He's telling you that you can do better."

"But I tried my best—"

"And now you know your best needs to be better." She said it gently, the way Dr. Targaryen had never been gentle with her when she was new. "He's teaching you. He's just not very nice about it."

Myrielle blew her nose. "How do you not hate him?"

"Because he's right." She shrugged. "Every time he's criticized my work, he's been right. And every time I've listened and improved, my studies have gotten better."

"You make it sound easy."

"It's not. But it's worth it."

Her phone buzzed. Another order.

"I have to go," she said. "But Myrielle? Don't take it personally. Just do better next time."

She left Myrielle in the office and headed back to the ER. The study was another gallbladder - definitely inflamed, possible perforation. She took extra clips of the wall, documented the pericholecystic fluid, made sure everything was perfect.

When she uploaded it, her phone rang within thirty seconds.

"Reading room."

"It's me. The gallbladder in bed eight is uploaded."

"I saw." A pause. "Did you make Myrielle cry?"

She blinked. "What? No. You made Myrielle cry."

"Fuck."

"She's fine. I talked to her."

"I didn't mean to—" He stopped. "Her images were shit."

"I know. And you were right to send her back."

"But I made her cry."

"You have that effect on people."

He was quiet for a moment. "But not on you."

"No. Not on me."

"Why not?"

She thought about how to answer that. "Because I know you're trying to make me better, not make me feel bad."

Another pause. Longer this time. "Thank you for talking to her."

"You're welcome."

"The gallbladder looks like it might have perforated."

"I thought so too."

"I'm calling surgery. Good catch."

He hung up.

She stood there in the hallway, holding her phone, feeling that warm complicated thing in her chest again.

—

At two a.m., she found Dr. Targaryen in the reading room with his head in his hands.

"You okay?"

He looked up. His eye was bloodshot, his hair completely disheveled now. The reading room looked like a bomb had gone off - empty coffee cups everywhere, papers scattered across the desk.

"Baratheon just ordered a CT for 'rule out badness,'" he said flatly.

"What?"

"That's the indication. 'Rule out badness.' Not a specific diagnosis. Not a clinical question. Just... badness."

She stepped into the room. "Did you call him?"

"I called him. He said, and I quote, 'I have a bad feeling about this patient.'"

"That's not an indication for a CT."

"I'm aware." He rubbed his face. "But if I reject it and the patient actually has something, I'll get blamed."

"So you're doing it?"

"I'm doing it." He dropped his hands. "I'm also documenting that the ordering provider could not articulate a specific clinical concern, and that the study is being performed under protest."

She couldn't help it - she laughed. "You're going to get in trouble."

"I don't care." He gestured at his screens. "I've read thirty-seven studies tonight, not including chest x-rays. Thirty-seven. And at least twenty of them were completely unnecessary."

"Welcome to modern medicine."

"I hate modern medicine."

"No, you don't."

"I might."

She moved closer to the desk. "When was the last time you ate?"

He looked at her blankly.

"That's what I thought." She pulled out her phone. "I'm ordering you food."

"From where? Everything's closed."

"Not everything." She typed quickly. "There's a 24-hour diner that delivers to the hospital."

"I don't need—"

"You told me I was going to pass out if I didn't eat. Same rules apply to you."

His mouth twitched. "You're using my own words against me."

"Damn right I am." She finished the order. "Burger and fries. They'll be here in thirty minutes."

"I didn't agree to this."

"You didn't have to. Consider it payback for all the coffee you've accepted from me."

"I've only accepted coffee from you twice."

"Three times. You're losing count. That's how I know you need food."

He looked at her for a long moment. The reading room was dim, just the glow from the monitors and the small desk lamp. His eyepatch was very black against his pale skin, and there were shadows under his eye that suggested he'd been working too many weekend nights in a row.

"You don't have to take care of me," he said quietly.

"I know."

"Then why are you?"

She thought about how to answer that. About all the times he'd pushed her to be better, had noticed when she was tired or hungry or struggling. About the text message he'd sent. About the way he'd called her work impressive.

"Because you take care of me," she said simply. "Even when you're being an ass about it."

Something shifted in his expression. "I'm not—"

"You are. But I don't mind."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked down at his keyboard.

"Thank you," he said finally.

"You're welcome."

Her phone buzzed. Another order. She groaned.

"What is it?"

"Renal ultrasound on the fifth floor."

"At two in the morning?"

"Apparently."

She headed for the door, then paused. Looked back at him. "Eat the burger when it comes. Don't just let it sit there."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Don't call me ma'am."

"Yes, miss."

She threw a pen at him. He caught it without looking up, and she could swear she saw him smile.

—

The burger arrived while she was on the fifth floor. When she got back to the department, she found Dr. Targaryen in the reading room, eating and looking vaguely uncomfortable about it.

"Good?" she asked.

"It's fine."

"Just fine?"

"It's a burger. From a diner."

"It's a good burger. From a good diner."

He took another bite. Chewed thoughtfully. "Okay. It's a good burger."

"Thank you." She grinned.

"You didn't make it."

"No, but I ordered it, which means I deserve credit."

She pulled out the fries she'd ordered for herself and sat in her corner chair. They ate in comfortable silence, the reading room quiet except for the hum of equipment and the occasional beep from somewhere down the hall.

"Can I ask you something?" she said after a while.

"You just did."

"Can I ask you another something?"

He gestured with a french fry for her to continue.

"Why do you work weekend nights?"

"Better pay."

"That's not the only reason."

He was quiet for a moment. "No," he admitted. "It's not."

"So?"

He set down his burger. Leaned back in his chair. "It's quieter. Fewer people. No administrators breathing down my neck about turnaround times."

"And?"

"And what?"

"There's more to it than that."

He studied her. "You're perceptive."

"Part of the job."

"No, it's not."

She waited.

He sighed. "I don't like working with other people."

"Because they're not as good as you?"

"Because they ask questions."

"About your eye?"

"About everything." He gestured vaguely. "Day shift means small talk. It means residents asking stupid questions. It means attendings wanting to chat about their weekends or their kids or whatever else it is that people talk about."

"And you don't like that."

"I don't see the point of it."

She thought about that. "It's called being friendly."

"I'm not friendly."

"I've noticed."

"And yet you keep bringing me coffee."

"I like a challenge."

That made him smile - a real one, not the half-smile or the almost-smile. "Is that what I am? A challenge?"

"The biggest one in this hospital."

"That's saying something. Baratheon works here."

She laughed. "Okay, the second biggest."

They finished eating, and she gathered up the trash. Dr. Targaryen had already turned back to his screens, but there was something different about the set of his shoulders. Less tense. More relaxed.

"Thank you," he said without looking at her. "For the food, that is."

"Anytime."

"I mean it."

She paused in the doorway. "I know."

—

The rest of the shift was mercifully quiet. A few routine studies, nothing critical. By six a.m., the worklist was almost clear and the day shift was starting to trickle in.

She was cleaning her machine when Dr. Targaryen appeared in the doorway of the ultrasound room.

"You're out of your cave," she smirked. "Is the world ending?"

"Possibly." He held out a piece of paper. "This is for you."

She took it. It was a requisition for a continuing education course on advanced vascular ultrasound.

"I don't understand."

"You're good at what you do," he said. "But you could be better. This course will teach you advanced Doppler techniques."

"Okay?"

"I'm recommending you for it. The hospital will pay."

She stared at the paper. "Why?"

"Because you're wasted doing basic studies. You should be doing the complex cases."

"I've only been doing this for a year."

"And in that year, you've become one of the best techs in this department." He said it matter-of-factly, like it was obvious. "The course is in March. You'll miss two weekend shifts, but I'll make sure they're covered."

"I don't know what to say."

"Say yes."

She looked up at him. He was watching her with that intense focus he usually reserved for imaging studies, like she was a puzzle he was trying to figure out.

"Yes," she said. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He turned to leave, then paused. "And for what it's worth - you're not a challenge."

"No?"

"No. You're..." He seemed to struggle with the word. "Easy."

"Easy?"

"To work with. To teach. You listen. You improve. You don't make excuses." He shrugged. "It's easy."

Before she could respond, he was gone.

She stood there in the ultrasound room, holding the requisition, feeling like something fundamental had just shifted between them. Something she didn't quite have a name for yet.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Dr. Targaryen: See you next weekend.

She smiled, her finger drifting over to the contact details. She decided she would save his name in her phone properly now. Not "Dr. Targaryen."

Just "Aemond."

—

The week between shifts felt longer than usual.

She picked up a few extra shifts during the week - coverage for sick calls, mostly - and thought about ultrasound techniques. She went to the gym and ran on the treadmill while listening to Metallica, wondering if Aemond was dictating somewhere, listening to the same songs. She met Anya for dinner and tried very hard not to talk about work.

"You're thinking about him," Anya said over pasta.

"I'm not."

"You are. You get this look."

"What look?"

"The look you get when you're thinking about something you don't want to admit you're thinking about."

She stabbed a piece of chicken. "I don't have a look."

"You absolutely have a look." Anya grinned. "So when are you going to ask him out?"

"I'm not."

"Why not?"

"Because he's a radiologist and I'm a tech. There's a power dynamic."

"He's not your boss."

"He might as well be. He's the one who reads my studies."

Anya considered this. "Okay, fair. But you're clearly into him."

"I respect him professionally."

"You brought him a burger at two in the morning."

"He was hungry."

"Uh huh." Anya's grin widened. "And the coffee? And the fact that you've mentioned him approximately seventeen times in the last hour?"

"I haven't—"

"You have. Trust me."

She sighed. "It doesn't matter anyway. He's not interested."

"How do you know?"

"Because he barely tolerates most people. I'm just..." She gestured vaguely. "Convenient. I work his shift. I do good work. That's all it is."

"If you say so."

But Anya's words stuck with her for the rest of the week. She found herself analyzing every interaction she'd had with Aemond, looking for signs that it was more than just professional respect. The coffee he'd thanked her for. The text he'd sent. The way he'd recommended her for the course.

The way he'd called her easy.

No. She was reading into it. Aemond Targaryen didn't do relationships - everyone at the hospital knew that. He barely did friendships. He was married to his work, devoted to his reading room and his coffee and his Metallica.

She was just a tech who happened to meet his exacting standards.

Nothing more.

—

Friday night arrived none too soon.

She showed up for her shift soaked, her scrubs damp despite her umbrella. Unseasonable rain had rolled in that afternoon and showed no signs of stopping. The ultrasound department was quiet - Myrielle had the night off, and Dalton was already out doing a portable.

She changed into dry scrubs and checked her assignment. Three studies pending already.

The reading room door was open. She could see Aemond at his desk, headphones on, fingers flying across the keyboard. She watched him for a moment, the way his shoulders moved, the sharp line of his jaw.

Then she went to get him coffee.

When she returned, he had his headphones around his neck and was staring at his screen with an expression of deep disgust.

"What's wrong?"

"Baratheon ordered a CT of the abdomen and pelvis for 'patient ate something weird.'"

She set the coffee on his desk. "What did they eat?"

"According to the chart notes, sushi from a gas station."

"Oh god."

"Indeed." He picked up the coffee. Took a sip. "Thank you."

"Bad night?"

"It's barely started and I already want to quit medicine."

"What would you do instead?"

"Law school."

She laughed. "You've mentioned that before."

"I think about it a lot." He gestured at his screens. "Lawyers don't have to deal with Baratheon."

"No, they just have to deal with criminals and divorce proceedings."

"Sounds peaceful."

She settled into her chair. "Did you have a good week?"

He glanced at her. "Why do you ask?"

"Just making conversation."

"I don't do conversation."

"You're doing it right now."

"Under protest."

She grinned. "So? Good week?"

He was quiet for a moment. "I read a paper on advanced Doppler techniques."

"Because you were thinking about the course you recommended me for?" She asked.

"Because I wanted to make sure it was actually good."

"And?"

"It's good. You'll learn a lot."

There was something in his voice - satisfaction, maybe. Pride. Like he was pleased with himself for finding something that would help her improve.

"What about you?" he asked after a pause. "Good week?"

The question surprised her. "Yeah. Fine. Picked up a few extra shifts, went to the gym."

"You work extra shifts on top of weekends?"

"Sometimes. When people call out."

He frowned. "That's a lot of hours."

"Lots of people work a lot, Aemond."

She didn't realize she'd used his first name until his expression shifted. Something flickered in his eye - surprise, then something else. Something she couldn't quite read.

"Sorry," she said quickly. "Dr. Targaryen."

"No." His voice was quiet. "It's fine. You can—" He stopped. "Aemond is fine."

"Okay."

"But only when we're alone."

"Wouldn't want to ruin your reputation."

"I don't have a reputation."

"Sure you do. Meanest radiologist in the hospital."

"That's not a reputation. That's a fact."

She laughed, and he almost smiled.

Her phone buzzed. An order for a pelvic ultrasound.

"I should—"

"Go. I'll be here."

She headed out, but she could feel his eye on her as she left. When she glanced back, he was watching her with that same intense focus from before. Like she was a puzzle. Like he was trying to figure something out.

—

Around midnight, she was doing a liver ultrasound on a patient with rising LFTs when her machine started making a weird noise.

Not the normal whooshing of the Doppler or the beeping of the controls. A grinding, mechanical noise that definitely should not be happening.

"Please don't die," she whispered to it. "Not again."

The screen flickered.

"Please."

The machine shut off.

"Fuck."

She tried turning it back on. Nothing. She checked all the cables, the power supply, everything. Still nothing.

She called the reading room.

"Let me guess," Aemond said. "Machine died."

"How did you know?"

"Because this hospital is a circle of hell and medical equipment is the devil's plaything."

Despite her frustration, she laughed. "What should I do?"

"Are both backup machines in use?"

She checked the department. "Yes. The one that broke last time is being serviced still."

"Fuck." She heard him typing. "How many studies do you have pending?"

"Four."

"I'll reassign two to day shift. The other two are stat - I'll see if I can get Dalton to cover them when he gets back."

"I can wait—"

"No. Your machine is dead, and I'm not having you wait around for two hours until he goes home." He paused. "Come to the reading room."

"What?"

"Come to the reading room. I need help with something."

She made her way to radiology, confused. When she arrived, Aemond was pulling up a CT scan on one of his monitors.

"What do you need help with?"

"Nothing. Sit down."

She sat. "Then why—"

"Because you've been on your feet for five hours and your machine is broken and you looked frustrated." He gestured at the screen. "I'm teaching you how to read CTs."

"I don't need to know how to read CTs."

"Everyone should know how to read CTs." He pulled up a chest scan. "This is a normal chest. Tell me what you see."

She looked at the gray and black images, the cross-sections of lungs and ribs and heart. "Um. Lungs?"

"Technically correct. Useless, but correct." He zoomed in. "Look at the density. The way the vessels branch. The—"

For the next hour, he walked her through CT anatomy. Not in the dry, clinical way of a textbook, but the way he actually looked at them - patterns and densities and subtle abnormalities. He showed her a pneumothorax, a pulmonary embolism, a lung mass. He explained how to spot free air, how to identify fractures, how to tell the difference between normal anatomy and pathology.

She found herself leaning forward, fascinated. This was his world - the way he saw bodies, the way he understood disease.

"You're good at this," she said.

He glanced at her. "At what?"

"Teaching."

"I'm really not."

"You are. When you want to be."

He was quiet for a moment. "I don't usually want to be."

"Then why are you teaching me?"

"Because..." He stopped. Started again. "Because you ask good questions. You actually want to learn." Another pause. "Because I like teaching you."

The reading room was very quiet. The monitors cast blue light across his face, making his eyepatch seem darker, his eye seem brighter.

"I like learning from you," she said.

Something in his expression shifted. Softened. "Good."

Her phone buzzed. A text from Dalton: back from portable, can cover your studies

"I should go," she said, standing.

"Wait." Aemond pulled open a drawer. "I have something for you."

He handed her a flash drive.

"What's this?"

"Study materials. For the course in March. Articles, tutorials, practice cases." He shrugged. "I put them together this week."

She stared at the flash drive. "You made me study materials?"

"You said you've only been doing this for a year. I thought you might need extra prep."

"Aemond, this is—" She didn't know what to say. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He turned back to his screens, clearly uncomfortable with her gratitude. "Now go help Dalton before he complains about doing your work."

She left, but she held onto the flash drive like it was something precious.

Because it was.

—

At two a.m., Dalton went home - he was the two p.m to two a.m tech, after all - and she was alone in the department again.

She'd just finished a renal ultrasound when Aemond appeared in the doorway. Out of his reading room. For the second time that night.

"You're wandering," she said. "Should I be worried?"

"I'm bored."

"You have a worklist."

"It's all routine. I could read it in my sleep." He leaned against the doorframe. "Want to get food?"

She blinked. "What?"

"Food. That thing humans eat to survive."

"I know what food is. I'm just surprised you're suggesting it."

"Why?"

"Because you don't leave the reading room."

"I'm leaving it now."

"For food."

"For food," he confirmed. "There's a food truck that parks near the hospital. They make decent tacos."

She looked at him - really looked at him. He was wearing his usual black scrubs, his eyepatch, his expression of perpetual mild annoyance. But there was something different about the way he was standing. Less guarded, maybe.

"Okay," she said. "Let's get tacos."

—

The food truck was parked on the street behind the hospital, a bright spot of color in the dark night. The rain had stopped, but the air was still damp and cold.

They ordered - three tacos each - and sat on a bench near the truck. The hospital loomed behind them, all lit windows and concrete.

"This is weird," she said.

"Eating?"

"Eating with you. Outside the hospital."

"We're still at the hospital."

"Technically. But we're outside. Under the sky."

He looked up. "Can't see many stars. Light pollution."

"Still counts."

They ate in silence for a while. The tacos were good - spicy and hot and exactly what she needed after five hours of work.

"Can I ask you something personal?" She asked.

"You can ask. I might not answer."

"Why radiology?"

He considered the question. "I like puzzles."

"And patients are puzzles?"

"Patient imaging is puzzles. The patients themselves I try to avoid."

"Because you don't like people."

"Because people are complicated."

"More complicated than imaging?"

"Infinitely more complicated." He took a bite of his taco. "Imaging is logical. There are patterns, rules. You follow the data and you get an answer."

"People aren't like that."

"No. People are messy. Emotional. Unpredictable." He glanced at her. "Present company excluded."

"I'm not unpredictable?"

"You're very predictable. You bring me coffee on Saturdays. You ask too many questions. You care too much about whether your images are perfect."

"That last one isn't a bad thing."

"I didn't say it was."

She finished her taco. "Can I ask about your eye?"

His jaw tightened. "No."

"Okay."

They sat in silence. She thought she'd overstepped, but then he spoke.

"I got in a fight when I was ten," he said quietly. "With my nephew. He was angry about something - I don't even remember what - and he grabbed a knife from the kitchen."

She went very still.

"It was an accident. He didn't mean to—" Aemond stopped. "But it happened. Destroyed my eye, damaged the surrounding tissue. Multiple surgeries, months of recovery. Nothing they could do to save it."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Apologize. Feel sorry for me. Any of it." His voice was sharp. "It happened. It's done. I adapted."

"Hence the radiology."

"Hence the radiology." He looked at her. "I was going to be a surgeon. Ophthalmology, obviously. I did one rotation and hated it. My depth perception isn’t good.”

She wanted to reach out, to touch his arm or his hand or something. But she didn't. She just sat there next to him on the cold bench, eating tacos and watching the hospital.

"Thank you for telling me," she said finally.

"You're persistent. I figured you'd find out eventually."

"I wouldn't have asked around."

"I know." He said it simply, matter-of-fact. "That's why I told you."

Her phone buzzed. An order for a pelvic ultrasound.

"Break's over," she sighed.

"Apparently."

They walked back to the hospital together. In the elevator, Aemond stood close enough that she could smell his soap again. Cedar and something else. She was sure that it had to be cedar. Something clean and sharp.

"Thanks for the tacos," she said.

"Thanks for the coffee."

"We're even now."

"Until next week."

She smiled. "Until next week."

The elevator doors opened and they went their separate ways - her to the ultrasound department, him to his reading room. But something had shifted. Something had changed.

She could feel it.

—

The rest of the shift was routine. Two more ultrasounds, both unremarkable. By seven a.m., she was exhausted but satisfied.

She was packing up when Aemond appeared.

"You're wandering again," she said.

"I'm going home."

"Revolutionary."

"I thought I'd walk you out."

She stopped. Looked at him. "Why?"

"It's dark. The parking garage is sketchy."

"I've been walking to my car alone for a year."

"I know. But I'm going to the parking garage anyway." He shrugged. "Might as well walk together."

It was a flimsy excuse and they both knew it, but she didn't call him on it.

They walked through the quiet hospital, past the night shift nurses finishing their charting, past the cleaning crew starting their rounds. The parking garage was cold and echoey.

"Which level?" Aemond asked.

"Three. You?"

"Same."

Of course.

They took the stairs - the elevator was slow at this time of morning. Her car was on the far end of the level, his was closer.

"This is me," he said, stopping at a sleek black sedan.

"Nice car."

"It's practical."

"It's an Audi."

"A practical Audi."

She laughed. "Sure."

He leaned against the car door. "About the course in March."

"Yeah?"

"If you need help preparing, I'm available."

"Like tutoring?"

"Like teaching you what you need to know so you don't waste the hospital's money."

"Right. Very practical."

"Exactly."

They stood there for a moment. The parking garage was quiet except for the hum of the lights and the distant sound of traffic.

"I should go," she said finally.

"Drive safe."

"Always do."

She turned to leave, then stopped. Looked back. "Aemond?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad we're friends."

Something flickered across his face. Surprise, then something warmer. "Yeah. Me too."

She walked to her car feeling lighter than she had in months.

—

The next few weeks developed a pattern.

Saturday nights, she brought him coffee. He taught her things - CT anatomy, complex Doppler techniques, how to spot subtle abnormalities. They ate tacos at three a.m. when the night was slow. He walked her to her car.

They texted during the week. Nothing heavy - just links to articles, comments about funny cases, the occasional complaint about Baratheon.

Her friends noticed.

"You're smiling at your phone," Anya said one evening when they were hanging out. "That's new."

"I'm not."

"You absolutely are." Anya leaned over to look. "Who's Aemond?"

She pulled her phone away. "A colleague."

"You don't smile at texts from colleagues."

"Maybe I do."

"You don't." Anya grinned. "Is this the grumpy radiologist?"

"He's not grumpy."

"Uh huh. What's he texting you about?"

She looked at her phone. The message read: I swear to God I’m never picking up another shift. I always get stuck with Baratheon. He just ordered a CT for "rule out zebras." I am one more stupid order away from quitting. Or killing someone. Not sure which.  [20:22]

She typed back: Zebras aren't even a real diagnosis.[20:24]

Try explaining that to Baratheon. [20:25]

"Work stuff," she told Anya.

"Right. Work stuff that makes you smile."

"It's funny."

"It's something." Anya's expression turned serious. "Be careful, okay?"

"Of what?"

"Of catching feelings for someone who might not catch them back."

"I'm not catching feelings."

"If you say so."

But Anya's warning stuck with her. Maybe she was catching feelings. Maybe she had been for weeks now, and she'd just been too busy or too stubborn to admit it.

She liked the way Aemond explained things. The way he remembered how she took her coffee. The way he'd made her study materials. The way he walked her to her car even though his was closer.

The way he'd told her about his nephew.

That was the thing that got her, really. The trust implicit in that moment. He didn't tell people about his eye - she knew that from the rumors, the speculation. But he'd told her.

She was in trouble.

Deep trouble.

—

The Saturday before the course, she arrived at work to find the reading room empty.

No Aemond. No coffee cups. No Metallica bleeding through headphones.

She checked her phone. No texts.

She asked at the front desk. "Have you seen Dr. Targaryen?"

"Called in sick," the secretary said. "Dr. Martell is covering."

Sick. Aemond was sick.

She'd never known him to call in sick.

She pulled out her phone and texted: You okay? [19:06]

No response.

She tried to focus on work, but she kept checking her phone. By midnight, she was actively worried.

She texted again: Just checking in. Let me know you're alive? [00:12]

Still nothing.

At two a.m., she broke down and called.

It rang four times, then: "Hello?" His voice was rough, congested.

"You sound terrible."

"I feel terrible."

"What's wrong?"

"Flu, probably. Or pneumonia. Hard to tell." He coughed. "Why are you calling?"

"Because you weren't at work and I was worried."

"I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine."

"I'm a doctor. I know when I'm dying."

"Are you dying?"

"Not currently."

She made a decision. "What's your address?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm bringing you food."

"I don't need—"

"Address. Now."

He gave it to her, too tired to argue.

At seven a.m., when her shift ended, she stopped at the diner and got soup. Then she drove to his apartment.

It was nicer than she expected - a high rise downtown with a doorman and everything. The doorman let her up after she explained she was a colleague.

Aemond answered the door in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair a mess, without his eyepatch. She'd never seen him without it.

The scarring around his eye was extensive - old damage from the childhood injury, rough and uneven. His damaged eye itself was milky and unfocused, the eyelid drooping slightly.

"You didn't have to come," he said.

"I brought soup."

He stepped aside to let her in.

The apartment was exactly what she expected - minimalist, clean, organized. Lots of books. A guitar in the corner, gathering dust.

"Nice place," she said.

"It's fine." He took the soup. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

They stood there awkwardly. He looked exhausted, feverish. She wanted to make him lie down, get him water, check his temperature.

"You should rest," she said.

"I'm fine."

"Aemond."

He sighed. "I'm fine. Just tired."

"Then rest."

"I have things to do—"

"Nothing that can't wait." She steered him toward the couch. "Sit. Eat your soup. Rest."

To her surprise, he obeyed.

She got him water, found the cold medicine in his bathroom cabinet, made him take it. He protested weakly but let her.

"You're bossy," he said.

"You're stubborn."

"It's not the same thing."

"It's exactly the same thing."

She sat on the other end of the couch while he ate. The apartment was quiet - no Metallica, no computer hums, just the sound of the city outside.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"For what?"

"For checking on me. For bringing food. For..." He gestured vaguely. "This."

"You've done the same for me."

"That's different." 

"How?" She asked.

"I'm your colleague. You're supposed to check on colleagues."

"And you're supposed to check on me?"

"That's professional courtesy."

"This is professional courtesy too,” she said.

He looked at her, and there was something in his expression - the one that wasn't scarred - that made her breath catch.

"Is it?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know," she said honestly. "What is it?"

He was quiet for a long moment. "I don't know either."

Her phone buzzed. Anya, asking if she was still alive.

"I should go," she mumbled. "Let you rest."

"Okay."

She stood, gathered her things. At the door, she paused. "Text me if you need anything."

"I will."

"I mean it, Aemond."

"I know." He stood too, unsteady. "Be careful driving home."

"Always am."

She left, but she could feel his eye on her as she walked away.

—

He was back at work the next Saturday, still a little congested but insisting he was fine.

"You should have stayed home," she said, handing him coffee.

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're sick."

"I'm better." He took the coffee. "Thanks for last week. For the soup."

"You're welcome."

They didn't talk about what he'd asked. Is it? What is it?

But it hung between them anyway, unspoken but present.

The shift was busy - three traumas, a stroke, the usual weekend chaos. She barely had time to think, which was probably good.

At three a.m., they took their taco break. Aemond looked better - less pale, more alert. The cold medicine was clearly working.

"Nervous about the course?" he asked.

"A little."

"You'll be fine. You're prepared."

"Thanks to you."

He shrugged. "You did the work. I just provided materials."

"You did more than that."

He looked at her. The food truck's lights cast strange shadows across his face, making his eyepatch seem darker.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Always."

"Why do you work so hard?"

The question surprised her. "What do you mean?"

"You work weekends. You pick up extra shifts. You study on your own time. You ask for extra cases, extra teaching. Why?"

She thought about how to answer. "Because I want to be good at this."

"You're already good at this."

"I want to be better."

"Why?"

"Because..." She stopped. Started again. "Because it matters, I guess. What we do matters. We catch things that save lives. And I want to be the kind of tech who catches everything."

He was watching her intently. "That's a lot of pressure to put on yourself."

"Says the man who demands perfection from everyone."

"That's different."

"How?"

"I demand perfection because I'm an ass. You demand it because you care."

She smiled. "Maybe we're not so different."

"Maybe."

They finished their tacos in comfortable silence. The night was cold but clear, stars visible despite the light pollution.

"I'm going to miss these," she sighed.

"Miss what?"

"The tacos. The breaks. Saturday nights." She looked at him. "I'm going to miss working with you for two weeks."

Something shifted in his expression. "I'll miss working with you too."

"Really?"

"You're the only tech who doesn't make me want to quit medicine."

"High praise."

"The highest."

They walked back to the hospital together. In the elevator, he stood closer than necessary. She could smell his soap, feel the warmth of him next to her.

The elevator doors opened and he touched her arm. Just briefly, just a light touch.

"Good luck," he said. "With the course."

"Thank you."

"And..." He hesitated. "Text me. If you want. About how it's going."

"Okay."

"I mean it."

"I know."

He let go of her arm and stepped back. "See you in two weeks."

"See you."

She watched him walk away, heading back to his reading room. And she knew, with absolute certainty, that she was in love with him.

Completely, stupidly, irrevocably in love with the meanest radiologist in the hospital.

She was so fucked.

—

The course was in Boston, two weeks of intensive training in advanced vascular ultrasound. It was exactly as challenging as Aemond had promised, and exactly as useful.

She texted him updates every evening.

Day one: my brain hurts. [18:44]

That's normal. Push through. [19:17]

Day three: I think I'm getting it? [18:31]

You are. Keep going. [18:50]

Day five: holy shit this is actually really cool. [18:37]

Told you. [18:52]

She sent him pictures of her practice scans. He sent back detailed feedback, pointing out what she'd done well and what needed improvement.

On day seven, she texted: I miss weekend nights. [19:55]

His response took a while. Then: Me too. [22:06]

Baratheon behaving? [22:08]

He ordered a CT for hiccups again. [22:12]

You're kidding. [22:12]

I wish I was. [22:27] 

She smiled at her phone, alone in her hotel room in Boston, and felt that warm complicated thing in her chest again.

On day ten, she called him.

"Hello?"

"I need advice."

"About?"

"There's a case tomorrow. Carotid artery with a dissection. I've never scanned one before."

"You'll be fine."

"But what if I mess it up?"

"You won't." His voice was calm, certain. "You know the anatomy. You know the technique. Trust yourself."

"Easy for you to say."

"It's true. You're better than you think you are."

She was quiet for a moment. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For believing in me."

"I don't believe in you. I know you." A pause. "There's a difference."

She did the case the next day. Aced it. The instructor called her technique flawless.

She texted Aemond immediately: Nailed the carotid dissection. [13:12]

I knew you would. [16:03]

You're very confident in me. [17:58]

I'm confident in facts. And it's a fact that you're excellent at this. [18:01]

She stared at that message for a long time. Excellent. Not good. Not adequate. Excellent.

On the last day of the course, she got her certificate and immediately took a picture to send to him.

Congrats. You earned it. [18:09]

Couldn't have done it without you. [18:10]

Yes you could have. But I'm glad I could help. [18:11]

She flew home feeling accomplished and exhausted and desperately eager to get back to work.

Back to weekend nights.

Back to him.

—

Saturday arrived like a gift.

She showed up for her shift early, coffee in hand, practically vibrating with excitement.

The reading room door was open. Aemond was at his desk, headphones on, completely focused on his screens.

She knocked on the doorframe.

He looked up. His expression shifted when he saw her - something that looked like relief.

He pulled off his headphones. "You're back."

"I'm back." She held out the coffee. "Missed me?"

"The weekend coverage was incompetent."

"That's not an answer."

"Yes. I missed you."

Her heart did something complicated in her chest. "I missed you too."

He took the coffee. Their fingers brushed. Neither of them moved.

"How was the course?" he asked.

"Hard. Useful. Everything you said it would be."

"Good."

"I brought you something." She pulled a flash drive from her pocket. "All my notes and practice scans. Thought you might want to see."

He took the drive, his expression unreadable. "You didn't have to do this."

"I wanted to. You gave me study materials. Seemed fair to give you something back."

"That's not how this works."

"How what works?"

"This." He gestured between them. "I teach you. You learn. That's the transaction."

"And if I want it to be more than a transaction?"

The words were out before she could stop them.

Aemond went very still. "What?"

"I—" She stopped. Tried again. "I don't know what this is. Between us. But I know it's not just professional courtesy."

He stood slowly. "No. It's not."

"Then what is it?"

He was quiet for a long moment. The reading room felt very small suddenly, the air charged with something electric.

"I don't know," he said finally. "I've been trying to figure that out for weeks."

"Me too."

He stepped closer. She could see the detail in his scarring now, the way his eyepatch strap cut across his silver hair.

"I'm not good at this," he said.

"At what?"

"People. Feelings. Any of it." He gestured vaguely. "I like logic. I like patterns. This is neither of those things."

"No. It's not."

"But I—" He stopped. "I think about you when you're not here. I save articles I think you'd find interesting. I reorganized my schedule the week you were gone because I kept forgetting you weren't coming in."

Her breath caught. "Aemond."

"And I don't know what to do with that. Because you're younger than me. You're a tech and I'm a radiologist. There's a power dynamic, even if I'm not technically your boss."

"I don't care about any of that."

"You should."

"But I don't." She stepped closer. "You're brilliant. You're dedicated. You push me to be better. And you see me - actually see me, not just as a tech or a student or whatever. You see me."

He was watching her with that intense focus, like she was a puzzle he was finally figuring out.

"I'm not good at relationships," he said quietly.

"Have you tried?"

"Once. In residency.”

"And?"

"She left after she realized how terrible residency is. Said she couldn't—" He stopped. "It doesn't matter."

"It does matter. But I'm not her."

"How do you know?"

"Because I've been watching you for months. And I've seen who you are. Not the reputation or the eyepatch or any of it. Just... you."

He reached out slowly, carefully, like he thought she might bolt. His hand cupped her face, his thumb brushing her cheek.

"This is a terrible idea," he said.

"Probably."

"You're going to realize I'm difficult and stubborn and emotionally unavailable."

"I already know all that."

"And you still want this?"

"Yes."

He smiled - a real smile, full and genuine. "Then I'm a lucky man."

He kissed her.

It was soft at first, tentative. Testing. Then she leaned into him and it deepened, his hand sliding into her hair, her hands clutching his scrubs.

He tasted like coffee and something else, something that was just him. His lips were warm, and when he pulled back, he was looking at her like she was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

"We should probably talk this through," he murmered, face still close to hers.

"Probably."

"Set boundaries. Figure out how to navigate the professional relationship."

"Definitely."

"But right now I really want to kiss you again."

She smiled. "Then kiss me."

He did.

They stood there in the reading room, kissing like teenagers, until her phone buzzed with an order.

She pulled back, breathless. "I have to—"

"I know." He didn't let go of her. "Later?"

"Later."

She left, but she could feel his eye on her the whole way down the hall.

—

The shift was simultaneously the longest and shortest of her life.

She did her studies - a gallbladder, two pelvics, a negative DVT study. But the whole time, she was thinking about Aemond. About the way he'd kissed her. About what came next.

At three a.m., he texted: Tacos? [03:01]

She met him at the food truck. They ate in silence for a while, both of them processing what had happened.

"So," she said finally. "Are we doing this?"

"Do you want to?"

"I asked first."

He smiled. "Yes. I want to."

"Even though it's complicated?"

"Especially because it's complicated." He looked at her. "I don't do simple. Never have."

"That's true."

"But we need rules."

"Rules?"

"Professional boundaries. We can't—" He stopped. "We have to keep work separate. No one can know, at least not yet. It could cause problems for both of us."

She nodded. "Makes sense."

"And if this doesn't work out—"

"We stay professional."

"Exactly."

"Okay."

He studied her. "You're agreeing very easily."

"I trust you." She took his hand. "And I want this. Whatever it is."

He laced his fingers through hers. "Me too."

They finished their tacos and walked back to the hospital. In the elevator, he kissed her again - quick and sweet.

"Four more hours," he said.

"Then what?"

"Then I'm taking you to breakfast."

"Aemond Targaryen, are you asking me on a date?"

"I believe I am."

She grinned. "I accept."

—

They went to a diner near the hospital, the kind that was open 24 hours and served breakfast all day. She ordered pancakes. He ordered coffee and toast.

"You need more than toast," she said.

"I'm fine."

"You're too thin."

"I'm a radiologist. We don't need muscles."

"You need calories."

He stole a bite of her pancakes. "Happy?"

"Delirious."

They talked - carefully, keeping away from topics that felt too heavy too soon. His work, her course, the ongoing saga of Baratheon's terrible orders. It was easy, comfortable. Like they'd been doing this for longer than a few hours.

"Can I ask you something?" She asked.

"You just did."

“Another something.”

“Fine.” He nodded curtly, as if it were permission for her to continue. 

"Why me?"

He looked at her. "What do you mean?"

"I mean... you could have anyone. You're brilliant, successful. Why me?"

He was quiet for a moment. "Because you're competent. I guess."

She blinked. "That's it?"

"No." He set down his fork. "Because you don't make excuses. You listen when I teach you something. You're not intimidated by me, even when everyone else is." He paused. "Because you brought me soup when I was sick. Because you care about doing good work. Because you're—" He stopped, looking uncomfortable.

"Because I'm what?"

"Because you make me want to be less of an ass," he said finally.

She smiled. "That's pretty a pretty romantic thing for the meanest doctor in the hospital to say."

"Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain."

She squeezed his hand across the table. "Your secret's safe with me."

They stayed at the diner until the day shift started trickling in. Then he drove her to her car - insisted on it, even though they were near enough to the hospital for her to walk.

"I'll see you next Saturday," he said.

"That's a whole week away."

"I'm aware."

"We could see each other before then."

He looked surprised. "Really?"

"Unless you don't want to—"

"I want to." He said it quickly, certainly. "I just thought you'd need space."

"From you? Never."

He kissed her then, right there in the parking garage. When he pulled back, he was smiling.

"Dinner," he said. "Wednesday. My place."

"I'll be there."

"Don't bring anything."

"I'm bringing wine."

"I said don't—"

"Wine, Aemond. I'm bringing wine."

He sighed, but he was still smiling. "Fine. Bring wine."

She drove home feeling like she was floating.

—

Wednesday arrived with agonizing slowness.

She showed up at his apartment at seven, wine in hand. He answered the door in jeans and a sweater - no scrubs, no eyepatch. Just him.

The scarring was there, visible in the soft light of his apartment, but somehow it didn't look as stark as it had when he was sick. Just part of him. Part of who he was.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi."

He'd cooked - actually cooked, not ordered takeout. Pasta with homemade sauce, salad, bread that smelled amazing.

"You cook?" she said.

"I have hidden depths."

"Apparently."

They ate on his couch, plates balanced on their laps, wine glasses on the coffee table. He told her about a particularly stupid CT order from earlier that week. She told him about picking up an extra shift and dealing with a difficult patient.

It was easy. Natural. Like they'd been doing this for years.

"This is nice," she said.

"Yeah. It is."

"Are you happy?"

He was quiet for a moment. "Yes. I think I am."

They ended up tangled together on his couch, kissing like they had all the time in the world. His hands were careful, reverent. Like she was something precious.

"I should go," she said finally. "It's late."

"Stay."

"Aemond—"

"I'm not asking for anything. Just stay. Sleep here."

She looked at him - at his scarred face and his intense eye and his messy hair. At the vulnerability in his expression.

"Okay," she agreed. "I'll stay."

He lent her clothes - a t-shirt that was too big and sweatpants she had to roll up. They lay in his bed, her head on his chest, his hand in her hair.

"This is nice," she smiled.

"Yeah. It is."

She fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.

—

The next Saturday, they worked like always.

She brought him coffee. He critiqued her studies. They ate tacos at three a.m.

But, now, when they were alone - truly alone, with no chance of someone walking by - he kissed her. Quick stolen moments that they were both paranoid about, always checking over their shoulders.

"We're terrible at this," she said one night, after they'd practically jumped apart when they heard footsteps in the hallway.

"At what?"

"Sneaking around."

"We're not sneaking. We're being discreet."

"We're paranoid."

"For good reason." He glanced at the door. "If anyone found out—"

"I know." She did know. The hospital had policies about relationships, especially ones that could be perceived as having a power imbalance. Even though Aemond wasn't technically her supervisor, he read her studies. He'd recommended her for the course. It could look bad.

"Maybe we should tell people," she said.

"Not yet." He said it quickly, firmly. "Not until we know this is—" He stopped.

"Is what?"

"Real. Serious. Something worth risking our jobs over."

She tried not to feel hurt by that. Tried to remind herself that Aemond was careful, methodical. He didn't do anything without thinking it through.

But it still stung a little.

"Okay," she nodded. "Not yet."

He must have heard something in her voice, because he pulled her closer. "It's not that I don't want people to know. It's that I don't want to fuck this up."

"You won't."

"I might." He kissed her forehead. "I'm not good at this. At- at being with someone. I don't want to mess it up before it even starts."

"You won't," she said again. "But okay. We'll wait."

—

They were careful after that. Painfully careful.

No touching at work unless they were completely alone. No texts that could be misconstrued if someone saw them. Nothing that would raise suspicion.

It was exhausting.

But it was also kind of thrilling, in a way. The secret smiles across the reading room. The way his hand would brush hers when he handed her coffee. The knowledge that in a few hours, they'd be alone together.

By the end of the month, people definitely noticed something.

"So," Jeyne said one night. "You and Targaryen."

Her heart stopped. "What about us?"

"You're getting along better."

"We've always gotten along."

"Not like this. He actually smiled at you yesterday. A real smile."

"He smiles."

"Not at other people." Jeyne studied her. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. We just work well together."

"If you say so." But Jeyne didn't look convinced.

That night, she told Aemond about the conversation.

"They're noticing," she said.

"I know."

"What do we do?"

He was quiet for a moment. They were in his apartment, curled up on his couch, half-watching a movie neither of them cared about.

"We could tell people," he said finally.

"I thought you wanted to wait."

"I did. I do." He turned to look at her. "But I also don't want to hide this. Hide you."

"You're not hiding me."

"Aren't I?" He touched her face. "I don't want you to feel like I'm ashamed of this. Of us."

"I don't feel that way."

"You should. I'm making you sneak around like we're doing something wrong."

"We're not doing anything wrong."

"I know. But it feels that way sometimes."

She kissed him. "So what do you want to do?"

"I want to tell people. But carefully. Selectively. Start with HR, make sure we're not violating any policies. Then our immediate supervisors. Then... everyone else, I guess."

"That's very methodical."

"I'm a very methodical person."

She smiled. "I know. It's one of the things I love about you."

The words were out before she could stop them.

They both froze.

"I—" She started. "I didn't mean—"

"Do you?" he asked quietly.

"Do I what?"

"Love me?"

She looked at him - at his scarred face and his intense eye and the vulnerable expression he was wearing. And she thought about lying, about backtracking, about making this easier for both of them.

But she couldn't.

"Yes," she said finally. "I do."

He kissed her. Deep and thorough and desperate.

"I love you too," he said against her lips. "I have for weeks. I just didn't know how to say it."

"You just did."

"I'm not good with words. With feelings."

"You're doing fine."

They stayed on his couch for hours, kissing and talking and making plans. About telling people. About what came next. About everything.

—

They told HR on a Tuesday.

The HR rep - a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense attitude - listened to their situation and pulled up the relevant policies.

"You're not in a direct reporting relationship," she said. "Dr. Targaryen doesn't supervise you, doesn't do your performance reviews, doesn't have any authority over your employment."

"But he reads my studies," she said.

"That's his job. He reads everyone's studies." The rep looked at them. "As long as you maintain professional standards at work and don't let the relationship interfere with patient care, you're fine."

"Really?" Aemond sounded surprised.

"Really. We prefer that employees disclose relationships like this, which you're doing. I'll make a note in your files. You should also tell your immediate supervisors, just to keep everyone in the loop."

They left HR feeling lighter.

"That was easier than I expected," she giggled.

"Much easier."

They told their supervisors next. Her ultrasound manager was surprised but supportive. Aemond's department head raised an eyebrow but didn't object.

And then, slowly, they stopped hiding.

They didn't make a big announcement or anything. They just... stopped being so careful. Stopped jumping apart when someone walked by. Stopped pretending they were just colleagues.

People noticed.

"I knew it," Jeyne said when she found out. "I fucking knew it."

"You didn't know anything."

"I had suspicions. Strong suspicions." Jeyne grinned. "How long?"

"A couple months."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"We were being discreet."

"You were being secretive. There's a difference."

But Jeyne was happy for them, and so was everyone else who found out. Even Myrielle, who'd cried after Aemond criticized her work, smiled when she heard.

"He's less scary when you know he has a girlfriend," she giggled.

"He's still scary."

"Yeah, but less so."

—

Six months later, Aemond proposed.

It wasn't romantic or elaborate. They were in his apartment, eating together and watching a documentary about medical imaging advancements, when he suddenly said, "Move in with me."

She looked at him. "What?"

"Move in with me. You're here most nights anyway. It doesn't make sense for you to keep paying rent on a place you barely use."

"That's very romantic."

"I'm not romantic."

"Clearly."

He set down his food and turned to face her properly. "I want you here. All the time. Not just on weekends or Wednesday nights. All the time."

"Aemond—"

"And I know it's fast. We've only been together six months. But I don't care. I know what I want." He took her hand. "I want you."

"Just living together?"

He was quiet for a moment. Then he got up, went to his bedroom, and came back with a small box.

"Oh my god," she said.

"It's not what you think."

"It's exactly what I think."

He opened the box. Inside was a simple ring - platinum band with a small diamond. Beautiful and understated, just like him.

"Marry me," he said.

"That's not a question."

"Marry me?"

"Still not really a question."

"Will you marry me?" He said it with exaggerated patience. "Please?"

She was crying and laughing at the same time. "Yes. Obviously, yes."

He put the ring on her finger and kissed her, and she thought about how far they'd come. From her time as a student, when she'd been absolutely terrified of him, to bringing him coffee, to late-night tacos, to this.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you too." He pulled her closer. "Even though you're bossy, and persistent, and you ask too many questions."

"Those are some of my best qualities."

"I know."

They sat there on his couch - their couch now, she supposed - and made plans. About the wedding (small, just family and close friends). About living together (she'd move in next month). About the future (whatever that looked like).

"Can I tell people at work?" she asked.

"About the engagement?"

"Yeah."

He thought about it. "Sure. Why not?"

"Won't that ruin your reputation?"

"What reputation?"

"Meanest radiologist in the hospital."

"I think that ship has sailed." He smiled. "Ever since you humanized me."

"You were always human."

"Not to other people."

"Well, they were wrong."

He kissed her. 

—

The wedding was three months later.

Small and simple, just like they'd planned. Her family, his family (minus a few relatives he didn't speak to), and a handful of close friends. Anya was her maid of honor. Aemond didn't have a best man - didn't really have close friends - but he didn't seem to mind.

They got married in a small garden venue, with simple vows and no fuss. She wore a dress she'd found on sale. He wore a suit and his eyepatch and looked more nervous than she'd ever seen him.

"You okay?" she whispered before they started.

"I'm terrified."

"Of what?"

"Fucking this up."

"You won't."

"I might."

"You won't." She squeezed his hand. "I won't let you."

The ceremony was short. The reception was shorter - they'd never been big on parties. By nine p.m., they were back at his apartment (their apartment now), exhausted and happy.

"We did it," she said.

"We did."

"Are you glad?"

He pulled her close. "I've never been more glad about anything in my life."

They honeymooned in Iceland - her choice - and spent a week hiking and relaxing and remembering what it felt like to exist outside the hospital.

When they came back, they went back to weekend nights.

"We should probably change our schedule," she said one Saturday. "Now that we're married."

"Why?"

"Because most people don't work the same shift as their spouse."

"Most people aren't us."

She smiled. "True."

"Besides, weekend nights are ours. I'm not giving them up."

"Even for a social life?"

"What social life?"

"Fair point."

He pulled her into the reading room - door closed, blinds drawn, completely private - and kissed her properly.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too."

"And I'm glad you're competent."

She laughed. "That's what you're going with?"

"It's important. I couldn't be married to someone incompetent."

"You're ridiculous."

"You married me anyway."

"I did." She kissed him again. "And I'd do it again."

Somewhere in the hospital, a monitor beeped. An order came through. The night shift continued, just like always.

And they went back to work, together, the way they always would be.

Because some things - the important things - didn't need to change.

Not when they were already perfect.