Chapter Text
The sharp, lavender scent of cleaning product and the feeling of your stomach in your throat is the last thing you register before the world tilts. One second your feet are firm, the next, they slide straight off the freshly mopped kitchen tiles, and you crash, sideways, into the screen door.
Your head aches with a dull throb, pulsing in time to the new sensation in your leg. It starts as a dull numbness, blooming slowly into a searing, wet paint. You look down, blinking back the haze, and oh, blood. Your pants are shredded from hip to knee- must have been where you took the brunt of the impact- they’re dark and heavy, clinging to your skin with a mixture of mop water and blood.
“Oh, fuck,” you pant, and you gamble taking a closer look at your thigh. It doesn’t pay off- shards of glass hazy red and mixed with blood- and your head grows light before the floor rushes up to meet you.
-
Fluorescent beams flicker brightly overhead as you wake, the squeaking wheels of the gurney high pitched over the thump of boots against linoleum floor. You have a vague feeling you look like an idiot, strapped to a bed, but the sound of voices roll over your ears- “-patient is coming around, vitals are steady. Seems like a vasovagal response, nothing serious. Must’ve seen the glass and ejected out.” A male voice speaks, unbothered. “Hey, there, you’re in the ER right now, can you tell me your name?”
You groan in response.
“-They’re gonna be alright, right?” The familiar sound of your roommate reaches you, but you’re too groggy to look for them. The thought that they’re there warms your heart, though. You try to turn your head, but all you can catch are black scrubs and a long, blonde braid swaying in pace with the gurney as they lead.
A voice from behind your head responds to your roommate- “Most likely, yes- we’re going to order an X-ray to check how deep the glass punctured, but there’s no major organs near the impact sites, and they’re not bleeding like they would if an artery was hit.”
You look down at your leg, and you see the right leg of your pants have been stained mostly dark red, and your arm and head pulse in discontent.
“Hey, BP’s bottoming out, elevate their legs-” a voice barks, but it fades out as your vision tunnels and greys. The last thought being, Shit, I hope they don’t have to take my pants off.
-
Again, you wake, and this time, you’re stationary. A blurry figure sharpens, and the first thing you see is glasses- dark and square, framed by the same light blonde hair you saw earlier. She was the one leading your stretcher. The woman is bent over at your side, stethoscope slung over her neck, using a pair of forceps to delicate pick at your upper leg. She looks up, startled, upon your awakening, but schools herself quickly. Pausing her work, she sets the forceps to the side, the paper cover crinkling over the tray. She offers you a brief smile, eyes meeting yours.
“Hi, there, I’m Dr. King.” Her voice is a beautiful husk, steady and controlled, and you watch her brows move, the flex of her neck muscles as she talks. “-You’re in the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital at the moment. How are you feeling?”
“How’d I get here?” you groan, and you try to shift in your seat, but she holds up her hands before you can really move, glancing down at her workspace-
“Oh! Sorry- I need to finish what I’m doing before you can move. I apologize if it isn’t very comfortable. Your roommate brought you in, gave us all your details. She couldn’t stay for long, though- left for an exam, I think?” She looks at you again, then, “You shouldn’t be able to feel this at all, we injected lidocaine around the wound. I’m sorry, this must be very startling for you.”
Okay, definitely picking up a cake and card for your roommate- no cake could even beat the cost of an ambulance. “No… no, it’s alright. Wow, yeah, I can’t feel it at all.” You say, you mean it, flexing your leg a little and feeling a whole patch of numbness. “Thank you, Dr. King.” You manage, wincing as your voice cracks on its way out. You feel a stiffness, something restricting your arm’s movement, and you notice your arm has already been bandaged. It must have made less contact with the glass if they were already finished with it.
“Of course.” Dr. King hums, and she glances at your figure, eyes reassessing your state of wellbeing. They flicker to your arm as you peer at the bandage, “Your arm had a couple scrapes, but it isn’t nearly as bad as your thigh, don’t worry.” Her eyes meet yours once again, and a sudden heat crawls up your neck, far more distracting than the dull numbness of your leg. Completely onesided, though, because in a second, she starts again, “-is it alright if I continue? Only a little more left, I promise.”
You nod, and she thanks you, reaching for the forceps. You watch her hands, even under the gloves, move deftly. Maybe it’s because you’re tired, or in a brand new environment, but you can’t look away from her hands as they hold the tool in a strong, practiced grip. She works quietly, sometimes humming as she pulls out a particularly difficult piece of glass- always gentle. You catch her checking on you out of the corner of her eye when she does so, making sure you’re comfortable. You’d start a conversation, if she wasn’t digging into your open wound. Dr. King beats you to it.
“So, good news. It’s relatively on the surface, so to speak, so we won’t need to have a CT scan run. We got what we needed from the X-ray, and from observation.”
“You did the X-ray already?” You ask, confused.
Dr. King nods, still bent over. “Yes, while you were unconscious. Luckily, we didn’t see anything even enter sub-Q. Subcutaneous- that’s right under the skin, but before the muscle.”
You sigh, in relief. “That sounds good?"
She offers a reassuring smile. “Yes. It is good. If there were shards lodged in your muscle, or worse, hit an artery, that would be much more concerning.” Dr. King glances back down at the wound, but looks back up, and her brows knit. “The rest of your wound is a little bit further from where I’ve done so far- I need to get to the edge of it, right below your pelvis. I just wanted to let you know- I understand it’s a sensitive area- so please tell me if you’re uncomfortable.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. That’s alright,” you nod, before you internally do a double take. They cut your pants around the wound, so at least you’re not entirely bottomless. It’s totally fine- she’s a doctor, and it’s entirely professional. Still, though, you can’t shake the heat rising up your neck at the thought of anything less clinical.
She works her way through your wound, glass clinking as she drops it into the tray next to her. The sound is tiny and rhythmic, pinging against the stainless steel tray that marks her progress.
“So, the ER must be crazy busy,” You start, the silence of the little curtained off nook seeming a bit too intimate. “How long have you worked here?”
Dr. King doesn’t look up immediately, she’s staring at your thigh with a particular intensity, jaw set as she moves the forceps. She pauses. “It is, usually, but right now, it’s relatively quiet.” She takes a minute to consider your second question. “How long? Actually, only a couple months. It’s my second year of residency, I did my first at the VA hospital.”
“Oh! Wow. I’m sure that must have been really interesting. Really different, too, huh?” you remark.
The doctor nods, a small smile emerging as she works. “Yes, it was very rewarding. Here, it’s not any less so, but you’re right, a much different pace.”
“How many hours do you work?” You blurt out.
“Fifteen hours a day,” she answers,. She doesn’t look up, but you notice how her posture shifts. A rounding of the shoulders, maybe the weight of the day pressing through her armor.
“Holy shit.” You say, jaw dropping. “Fifteen? You must have some crazy stamina.” You regret the wording the minute it comes out, but the doctor doesn’t seem to hear it as anything else.
A small, surprised chuckle escapes her, not a doctor laugh- it’s throatier, more private. “It requires stamina, yes. But mostly mental, much harder than the physical aspect of the job.” Dr. King pauses, and you can see her brow furrow as she leans closer to the light. The fluorescent glow catches the gold in the strands of hair that escape her braid, and reflects off of the rim of her glasses.
“Everything alright?” You ask.
She sighs, a soft puff of air that hits your knee. “This section of the wound is a bit further away. I can’t quite get a safe angle to remove the debris without… well, moving you.”
As she explains the optimal position, Your brain traitorously fills in the blanks. You catch yourself having to focus on the ceiling tiles, counting the little dots just to keep from feeling how the air in the small curtained room suddenly feels five degrees hotter. Professionalism, you have to remind yourself, even as you shift your gaze back down to watch the pulse in her neck.
“If it’s alright with you,” Mel says, her voice dropping into a careful, respectful register, “I’d like to place my hand here to pull the tissue toward me.” She gestures to the high curve of your thigh, right beneath your hip.
“Whatever the doctor says, right?” you offer, trying for casual but landing somewhere much closer to breathless.
Dr. King tilts her head to the side, brown eyes locking onto yours with a fierce earnestness. “Well, yes, but it’s incredibly important for the patient to be comfortable. That matters a lot.”
You smile, and shake your head. You would reach out to pat her hand, if it wasn’t gloved and currently holding a blood spattered medical tool. “I appreciate it, doctor, but it’s totally alright. I’m good.”
Dr. King smiles gratefully. She reaches out. Even through the blue nitrile of her glove, her hand is warm, and a steady, grounding weight. It’s at such a place that you’re sure she can feel your heartbeat through your skin, threatening to rip out of you. You can feel your cheeks getting hot, and you scramble to find something else to focus on.
“Mel! Yo, you busy in there?” A lighthearted voice calls, and you look down, sharply, as someone pushes past the curtains into the section they cordoned off. She’s wearing black scrubs, dark hair tied in a half up, half down style framing a round, pale face. It’s another doctor, as you can see from the nametag, Doctor-
“-Santos? Sort of- is it urgent? I’m a little preoccupied at the moment,” Dr. King says, stopping and looking back to Santos without taking her hand off your thigh, though her right hand with the instrument has stopped perfectly, pinky resting on the skin next to the wound.
Santos looks between you and…Mel? Her brows rise, giving way to an undecipherable emotion as she eyes the situation you found yourself in. “Oh, you definitely are. Interesting, uh, workplace maneuvering there, Mel.”
Mel doesn’t move her hand, and if anything, she seems to plant it more firmly, though you see her the edges of her ears are beginning to glow a delightful pink.
“Tricky angle.” Mel says, without skipping a beat, voice flat and logical- though there's a slight tightness in her throat that seems to give her away. “I need leverage to clear the debris safely. Unless you’ve got a better idea, Santos?” The last part isn’t cocky at all, completely genuine. You wonder what she’d sound like cocky.
Santos lets out a low whistle, looking away, “Oh, nope. No ideas here. Do your thing, Mel. Actually, I forgot what I was going to ask- carry on with the… leverage.”
And she steps out of the room, curtains swishing closed in her wake.
Mel lets out a breath in a sigh, a long and shaky exhale that fans across your skin. She finally meets your eyes, and behind those thick lenses, her brown eyes are wide, human, and mildly mortified.
“My apologies for my coworker,” she murmurs, and for the first time you can see, she pushes her glasses up to her nose with a sterile elbow, her hand trembling just enough for you to see. “She’s a little… chaotic?”
Mel rolls her shoulders, a faint popping sound in the small space. And you realize she’s been at this- bent over this tray, over you for much longer than you’ve been awake to witness it.
“No worries!” You let out an easy laugh, seeming oddly loud in the quite space. “She seems funny. Dr. Santos, you said?”
You hesitate. The air between you two feels different, much less patient and provider, but you can’t quite put a finger on it. “Your name is Mel?”
She looks up at that, the magnification of her lenses catching the light, momentarily hiding her eyes, “Yes. It’s short for Melissa. That’s what most people call me.” Mel adds, her fingers rubbing awkwardly against the metal of the tool, “-you can too, if you want?”
“Oh, no, I was just curious. It’s a beautiful name, thank you for sharing,” you answer softly, genuinely. You mean it, because the name Melissa feels softer than Dr. King. You don’t press- not quite sure of the etiquette for first-naming the woman currently digging glass out of your leg. “So, long shifts,” you say, steering back to steady waters. “You have any time for things you enjoy? Or is it just… this?” You gesture to blood soaked gauze and sterile curtains.
“Oh, yes!” Mel’s face transforms, clinical mask completely vanishing and it’s almost like the exhaustion vanishes for a second. “I have movie nights with my sister- I mostly do what she likes. We do Kennywood, the zoo, oh, and obviously, Elf.”
“That’s so sweet of you,” you smile, watching the ways her eyes crinkle behind her lenses. “there anything you like to do?” You ask, shooting blindly. It lands.
Mel pauses, forceps hovering. She seems to wrack her brain, almost unsure of where her hobbies are. Then, a spark. “Oh- um, I used to really enjoy the Renaissance faire?”
“No way,” you grin, “That’s so cool! I love the Ren Faire- turkey legs, performances, dressing up with everyone going along with it.”
Her teeth flash in a bright, genuine smile, “Yes! Exactly. It’s such a relief to pretend to be someone else for a change,” Her movements become more animated, her hands moving in fluid, excited movements. “I actually dressed up as my 17th century French alter ego, I researched it for months- oh, hold up-”
She stops abruptly, and leans in, glasses inches from your skin. Formerly playful, the light in her eyes are replaced by a sharp, determined focus.
“What’s up?” You ask, craning your neck to see.
“Mmm, let me concentrate for a second,” Mel hums. Her grip on your thigh tightens, just a fraction, but it’s firm, almost possessive, and more than enough to make your breath hitch. You watch the muscles of her hand flexing under the blue glove, her grip on the forceps disciplined as she angles around a shapely piece of glass. Her jaw juts, and the tip of her tongue peeks out to press above her upper lip in a look of such raw concentration that your stomach does a slow, dizzying flip.
Mel breathes a sigh of relief as she pulls out- seemingly- the last shard. She swivels to deposit it in the tray with the others with a triumphant grin that makes you smile. “That’s it! All done.” She moves her hand, looking like she’s about to pat your thigh, but retracts it swiftly. The lack of warmth burns, and you’re almost disappointed to feel it leave.
Before you can think, you start to sit up, in an attempt to stand. Mel throws out her hands, catching your shoulder in a firm, though gentle grip, and guiding you back down. You sit, obediently.
“Not just yet, sorry,” she says, breathing out a huff that sounds suspiciously like amusement. “I need to bandage it. You don’t need stitches- they weren’t deep enough for that.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry about that, Dr. King.” You mumble. Her hand lingers on your shoulder until you’re fully reclining.
“No worries, I’m sure you’re eager to get out of here.” She offers a small, tired smile, and turns to the counter, her back to you as she reaches for the dressing supplies.
“No- well- it hasn’t been entirely unpleasant,” you admit, your voice a tad lower than intended. “I’ve had such a lovely doctor to tend to me the entire time, haven’t I?”
A sudden, pop of plastic makes you jump. You glance over to see Mel fumbling with a packet of gauze she’s torn open with entirely too much force. She doesn’t turn back immediately, but you see that both the tips of her ears and the back of her neck are turning a brilliant, tell-tale crimson.
“I’ll let you know when to lift your leg up,” Mel says, voice pitched higher as she turns around with a large, sterile pad. She works quickly, movements a blur of practiced efficiency, rolling out the gauze over the pad. She taps the underside of your thigh. “Up, please. Just for a sec.”
You bring your ankle backwards towards you, lifting up your leg. Mel leans in, reaching under to wind the bandage, once, twice, and the third time, she gets a little ambitious. The roll slips, and her hand darts down to catch it. In the scramble, her knuckles graze the center of your lap, past the edge of your trimmed pants.
The contact is so brief, barely a ghost, but the heat of it burns through you. An embarrassing, throaty hitch of breath escaped you before you can even choke it back. Mel jumps back, recoiling as if electrocuted, hands flying up.
“Shit! Sorry, -did I hurt you? Knock into the wound? God, the lidocaine must’ve worn off already.” Her eyes are wide behind her glasses, frantic with professional concern.
You shake your head so fast the edges of your vision blur, “No! No, sorry. My leg must have just fallen asleep. Y’know, pins and needles when it wakes up. You’re all good, Dr. King.”
“Phew,” she sighs, exhaling a lungful of air, posture sagging. “Right, that’s a relief.” Mel responds, and cuts off a final section of tape with a neat snip of her scissors, smoothing the tape with a lingering press of her thumb before she guides your leg back flat. “All set. Thank you for… bearing with me.”
You nod, watching as she pulls her gloves off, and you finally see her hands without them on. They look perfectly normal- long, strong fingers and neat nails. You watch them move, agile and precise as she places everything in the tray beside her. Mel rests them in her lap as she turns back to you after tiding up her station, and you rip your eyes away from them as she speaks, forcing your eyes back to her face.
“So, in terms of aftercare,” Mel starts, words like swelling and redness floating through the air. But you aren’t hearing them in the slightest. You’re too busy noticing the way her thickly rimmed glasses frame the deep, honey-brown of her eyes, and how her expressive eyebrows dance with every point she emphasizes.
“-and make sure never to scratch or pick at the wound, no matter how irritated it feels. Do you need me to repeat anything?” Mel finishes, tilting her head.
“Nope! All good. Thank you so much, Dr. King.” You say, giving her your most innocent, ‘I-was-definitely-listening’ smile.
“Of course,” she says, and she looks genuinely surprised at the gratitude, a soft glow settling over her features. “Really, I love this stuff.” She says, before she freezes, then balks, her hands fluttering. “Oh- not injured people! I meant extracting debris, the technical side.”
You can’t help it- a laugh bubbles out of you. “Sure, sure, I’ll make sure the next time I show up it’ll be more of the same, just for you” you joke.
Mel’s face grows serious, and slightly worried. “No. Please make sure to be more careful around slippery floors. I would rather not see you again.”
Your heart takes a sickening nose-dive towards the floor. The silence stretches for a very painful second before Mel’s eyes fly open in sheer panic.
“Here! See you again here.” she corrects herself, her voice tripping over the words. “Sorry, God, I didn’t mean to come off as rude. Unless- that was a joke?”
You nod, a grin spreading across your face. “Yes, just a joke. Can’t make any promises though,” you give her a quick wink. You regret that immensely, and immediately- wanting to crawl right under your hospital bed. Mel just looks plain confused. But it seems to register as she helps you stand, making sure you can walk. And as serious as Mel looks, you see the fierce pink grace the tips of her ears, and perhaps it wasn’t just a blunder.
“Right,” she murmurs, her grip on your arm firm and supportive. “Let’s get you checked out, then.”
The walk to the front desk is slow, and a steady rhythmic series of winces. Mel stays glued to your side, her shoulder a steady post you’re all too happy to lean against. You can feel the heat of her through her scrubs, a constant and grounding presence that makes the noise and clamor of the halls much less daunting. She doesn’t pull away until you reach the high, laminate counter of the discharge station. You can almost see Dr. Santos out of the corner of your eye, watching you very unsubtly from her place at a desktop monitor.
Mel hands a thick plastic folder to the administrator, but she doesn’t leave just yet. She stands there for a beat, fingers tapping in a restless rhythm against the side of her leg. She looks caught between the need to be a doctor, go back to her rounds, and the want to be Mel, drawn to keep looking at you.
“Take care of that leg,” she says, finally, maintaining that professional tone. “And maybe- buy some non-slip rugs? Just for my peace of mind?”
You let out a soft laugh, reaching for a pen. “I’ll put it at the top of my list, Doctor.” You feel her presence drift away.
Focused and bent over the paperwork, your attention is drawn by the fine print of insurance codes and billing cycles blurring together. You have to scratch new lines just to get the cheap ballpoint spitting ink again.
A movement in your peripheral catches your attention. You look up, past the busy nurses, and the security guard pacing around by the door. In a doorway, about twenty feet back, partially blocked by a vending machine, you see a flash of black scrubs and a blonde braid.
It’s Mel. She isn’t working, not like you’d have expected- she’s just… standing there. She’s pulled her glasses off, and is cleaning them on the bottom of her shirt, her face looking vulnerable and tired in the harsh, unfiltered light of the hallway. She looks up. Her eyes land on yours, and for a second, the busy noise of the ER, wheels squeaking, ringing phones and people groaning in complaints and pain, mutes, into a low, echoing hum.
Without her glasses, her gaze feels incredibly direct, warm brown eyes lingering on your face. It’s- unimaginably soft in a way that makes your breath catch. And she doesn’t wave, but the way she stays there, watching you find your footing, feels more intimate than gesture.
“-need you to initial here, as well,” the receptionist- Ms. Perez, as her nametag states- finishes, tapping a finger against the clipboard.
And you look down to sign the box, heart doing a frantic, fluttering skip against your ribs. When you look up after, the doorway is a chaotic blur- trauma team sprinting through with a gurney carrying a mess of red and white, racing past the spot where she was just standing.
The heavy swing doors settle into place with a dull thud, and she’s gone, swallowed back up by the relentless energy and work of the hospital.
You stand there for a moment, clipboard in hand, before a heavy weight settles upon you. You’re back, just another patient heading home with a limp and a bag of gauze, and she’s a resident with seven more hours on her clock.
You finish up quickly, but you’re picturing the look on her face when she sees a thank-you note waiting for her at the nurses’ station you’ll have to drop off later.
The cool city air is a soothing balm to the heat of your face as you step outside.