#SHE’S LOOKING OUT FOR HER MAN AND HIS TRAUMA

[imagines-r-s]

☆somewhere only we know☆

dr. jack abbot x reader

author's note: i will say, i have so much love for this fic. def one of my favorites that i've written, so i hope you all enjoy!! (also i might write the smut to this eventually, i don't know yet though friends)

wc: 7.9k

warnings: mutual pining, crazy tension, no one doing anything about their feelings, a bit of angst?, stubborn old man

(gif not mine)

You’re not sure how the nickname came to be, but at this point everyone was saying the same thing about Jack Abbot: he had become your bodyguard. Every time that there was any sign of harm near you, low and behold, he was no more than two steps behind you to back you up. Even if you weren’t in harm, he immediately jumped into protective mode. 

The first time that it happened was at the beginning of night shift. You always got there at least 10 minutes early, just so that way you were able to stop at the cafeteria and get your usual tea, while having long enough for it to be cooled down by the time that you dropped it at the nurses station - because for whatever reason, they made their drinks piping hot. 

Today though, you were running late. Not late to the extent that it interfered with the beginning of your shift, but late enough that your tea was still piping hot by the time you made it to the Emergency Department. Even if it was placebo, you needed at least some of your tea before your shift, but you weren’t able to do that, so you were practically dragging yourself around the Emergency Room. 

”What’s wrong with you?” Abbot asked, noticing the dragging of your feet as you paraded around the nurses station for a moment. 

“My tea was hot,” you grumbled, suddenly irritated at anything and everything, which only earned a confused look in response. 

“Is it… not supposed to be?” he said, carefully examining the contents of the thermal cup that sat in front of you. 

“I mean, it’s supposed to be hot, but the cafe makes it too hot sometimes and I usually get here with enough time for it to cool off and I-“ you paused, watching as he grabbed your small pink thermal and walked over to the lounge. “Abbot, I didn’t mean throw out what I already had.”

”I’m not, kid. I’m just getting you an ice cube or two so you can calm the fuck down. I don’t want one of my best residents dragging the whole shift.”

You simply looked at him for a moment, “you think I’m one of your best residents?” A smile slowly growing on your face. 

”Don’t let it get to your head, I just don’t want you burning your tongue.”

☆

Here and there more mundane things happened, but it still showed the care and consideration that he had for you. 

The next significant time that it happened was when a multi-patient trauma came and it was all hands on deck; all hands on deck including a particular surgeon that Abbot just could not get along with. 

”What are we looking at?” she asked, storming in as if she had been seeing this patient the entire time that you and Abbot had been working on her. It was a teenage girl that was struck by the car on the passenger side of the vehicle. 

”We got this one, Walsh. Pretty sure I heard someone needed a surgeon in trauma 3,” Jack said, not wanting to deal with Walsh at this very moment. He also had the perfect opportunity to teach you something new, but he knew Walsh would immediately interfere. 

”You can’t just put your trust in any resident, especially one you show favoritism to, Abbot. It’s not wise and could kill a patient,” she said, calmly. Even though her words didn’t bother you, you still hesitated for a moment when you were handed the scalpel. 

”As I said before, Walsh, this doesn’t look like trauma 3. Go harass whatever patients are in there,” he spoke, turning towards you,”I wouldn’t let you do this one if I didn’t know that you could do it, kid. Now we don’t have time for whatever she has to say right now.”

You looked up to grab the scalpel from him, “thank you.” You earned a simple hum in response. 

You didn’t notice the way that his actions immediately caught the attention of everyone in the room, not just Walsh. Perlah made note to talk to Princess about it later. 

☆

Although you usually worked night shifts, you got called in to help just a bit earlier today - only by a few hours. Only unfortunate thing was whenever you got called in, you needed to get there as soon as you could, so that meant no tea today. 

Jack also got called in, but he was close enough to the hospital that a quick stop to the cafe wasn’t going to throw off his day - he knew you were likely 10-15 minutes out still, so he made sure that he grabbed the tea on his way in. 

Hustling in, you made sure to set your things in your locker before making it back to the nurse’s station. It wasn’t rare for you to see Dana, but it was rare for you to see her for more than 15 minutes at work.

”Dana, hi,” you immediately rounded the station to give her a hug, “I feel like I only see you in small doses anymore.”

”It’s good to see you, too, hun. No tea?”

”You know me too well, but no. I was running late in general, plus I hate being late whenever I get called in, so I didn’t-“ your words stopped in your throat as you saw a small black thermal pop into view. 

“Here, kid,” and before you could even say thank you, he caught up to talk to Robby - who didn’t miss the interaction either. 

“Oh, well. Nevermind, then?” you said, a confused look on your face, which only made Dana laugh more. “He did say I was one of his favorites, but I didn’t know that that entailed getting me my tea?”

”You’re definitely something to him,” she spoke, in true Dana fashion. “Maybe more than a favorite.”

”No, he just said I was one of his favorite residents, it wouldn’t be anything more than that,” you said, taking a sip of your tea, only to be met with silence, “Right?”

”That’s a question for him, hun. Let me know how asking goes.”

You knew you weren’t going to ask - this was just one of those mundane things that he did for you. 

“You know, I don’t get any of my residents their ‘morning’ drink,” Robby said, as he walked beside Jack. 

“Okay, well news flash, it’s actually 4:30 in the afternoon, so no morning drink here, brother,” he spoke, keeping his voice even. In all honesty, he didn’t know why he had gotten you tea. It wasn’t like he even got himself a coffee or anything, he just knew that you would need the pick-me-up before today’s shift and felt inclined to do so - for whatever reason. 

“Still doesn’t give any reason for you getting her tea,” Robby said, a slight smirk on his face, simply brought on by his friend deflecting. 

“I don’t really need to give you reasoning. I just need my favorite resident to be on point.”

”Oh, so she’s moved on from ‘one of your favorites’. I see.”

Jack could only roll his eyes in response. Of course that’s what Robby picked up on. 

☆

Loss wasn’t foreign to you. Especially in this profession - but today it hit harder. You were no stranger to the idea and concept that you can’t always save people, but for whatever reason, today was a day where you couldn’t deal with the loss. 

You had an older patient, she came in stable for a simple procedure, but something went wrong. You had walked away under the impression that she was stable, and she was, but when you were checking on another patient, you heard the nurses call and code. This had you sprinting through the ER and giving compressions for 40 minutes. 

She should have been fine. She quite literally was here for one of the easiest procedure you could perform in the ER, yet it wasn’t enough. You stayed in her room a bit too long before Jack found you. 

“You know, it’s not your fault,” you had found a point on the tiles that was more interesting than anything else. 

��Yeah, so why does it feel like it?” You hadn’t meant to be short with him, but you just couldn’t deal with it right now. You didn’t need comfort or patience, you needed someone to yell, scream, anything other than sympathy. It was somehow more draining than if someone just yelled at you. 

“Kid,” he said, stepping closer to you. He reached a hand out to your shoulder, but you nudged him off and left the room. He could only watch you walk away. He had never gotten that kind of reaction from you - part of him wanted to leave you be, but the other part was ready to chase you down to offer some kind of comfort. 

You just weren’t in the mood for it today. You were no stranger to self soothing, growing up in a place where it was every man (or woman) for themselves, so Jack trying to offer something threw you off. It wasn’t that you didn’t want the comfort, it was that you simply couldn’t accept it. 

Another reason that he wasn’t shocked to see you up on the roof, not on the side of the railing that he usually stood on though - which gave him some peace of mind. So he simply stood beside you, a peaceful silence taking over the both of you. 

He didn’t say anything, only moving his hand over just enough to where your pinkies were touching each other. 

☆

“Hi, I’m Dr. y/l/n, what brings you in today?” you asked, pulling the curtain closed, only to see one of your ex flings in the bed in front of you. It hadn’t ended badly, just ended because the mixed work schedules made a difference. ”Oh, hey, Lucas.”

”Hey, y/n/n,” the familiar nickname left his mouth as though nothing had really ever ended between you two. 

“What brings you in?” 

“Well, note that I wasn’t skateboarding at night, but I did skateboard earlier and the issue just got worse. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to check that my favorite doctor was working tonight to help me out though,” he said, which only earned a laugh from you - loud enough that someone else in the ER heard. 

Jack’s ears perked up at the sound of your laugh, “which patient is she with right now?”

Ellis simply laughed in response, “don’t ask questions you don’t want to know, Abbot.”

”What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

She could only smirk in response, only because she knew exactly who you were with right now because she had seen the name when checking boards, “she’s with Lucas, if I recall correctly.”

”Who the fuck is Lucas?” he said, a look of disgust crossing his face. He thought for a moment, as he process Ellis had spoken like he should know who she was talking about. “Wait, as in that Lucas?”

She couldn’t help to hide the smirk on her face, “maybe.” The smirk turning into a laugh as she watched him shoot up from the nurse’s station to go check on a patient that likely has a simple sprain. Before he knew it, he was moving the curtain back to see you and Lucas talking. 

“No, but it’s not like anything crazy, just a small get together. We also wouldn’t have to exclusively stay with Marcus and them, I didn’t plan on it at least,” he spoke, glancing up to see the older Doctor behind you. 

“I mean, I can see what I can do. No promises though, remember, I’m a very busy woman,” you spoke, checking the bandages on his ankle. Feeling a presence behind you, you moved to check behind you, only to see Jack there. ”Oh, hey?”

”Hi,” he said, tone short and voice laced with something you couldn’t recognize. He simply kept his eyes on the patient in front of you. 

“This is Dr. Abbot, by the way. Usually, he’s at least a tad bit more personable, but he’s not really trained to deal with some people, so give him grace,” you said, earning a laugh from Lucas. 

“I gotcha. Hey, man. Are you one of her teachers or?”

”Something like that.”

Sensing whatever tension was there, you quickly just to dissolve the tension. I’m going to go check back on some results though and I’ll be right back. Dr. Abbot?” you asked, nodding your head outside of the curtain,”care to explain what the fuck that was?”

”I don’t know what you mean,” he said, looking anywhere but your face. You took a moment to examine the expression on his face before you smiled. ”What is it?”

”Did Ellis tell you who Lucas was?”

”No, but he’s been mentioned before in passing,” he spoke, tone still short. 

You couldn’t help but laugh, “You’re jealous?” He couldn’t say anything in response - he wasn’t a liar. “Oh my god, you are. I was just saying that. Wait. I have so many follow up questions.”

”And I have no follow up answers for you, y/l/n.”

☆

“Okay, wait, so you mean to tell me, that he did all that and didn’t say anything else after you said you had questions,” your friend asked. 

“I can respect top tier avoidance, but doing that without actually clarifying did not help me one bit,” you had today and tomorrow off and your friend hit you with a ‘going out, you wanna come?’ text - so who were you to say no. 

“Hmm, you know what I sense, a planned drunk text,” she said, taking another sip of her margarita. You guys had made a stop at the bar before you would go to the club, mainly to rehash, but also make sure you had enough food in your system. 

“I don’t know, that’s a little much for knowing nothing for sure,” you said, but you had already been contemplating it. 

“Okay, so then, let’s get fucked up, so you can forget about your indecisive-hot-older-doctor crush,” she said, calling the waiter over to you, so you could get your checks. 

The two of you elected to meet some more friends out at the club, mainly for the safety of having a bigger group. As the night went on, the drinks kept coming and the music kept playing, but it was a much needed break after the tension filled days and thoughts of the doctor in your head. 

By the time that your friends were considering leaving, you knew that you were done for. The thoughts of Jack that were in your head weren’t going away - in fact, your drunk, delusional brain was starting to convince you that the idea of calling him was the best idea ever. 

“Should I call him, guys?” you said, your words somehow rushed and slowed simultaneously. “I kinda want to call him.” You were immediately met with mixed reactions, but your brain chose to ignore those disagreeing. 

Before anyone could even process, your phone was open to his contact and you were pressing the call button. It might not have been your smartest decision, but here you were. The phone rang once, twice, but on the third ring he picked up.

”y/n?” his voice sounded concerned - of course it did, you never just randomly called him.

”Hi, Jack,” you said, a smile grazing your face, even though he couldn’t see it. “I just wanted to, um, to talk to you.”

”Where are you?” 

“I’m out with friends.”

”Friends? Or Lucas?”

You giggled at that, “wouldn’t you like to know, pretty boy.”

A deep chuckle rang out from his side of the phone, “you think I’m pretty?”

”I think a lot about you, a lot. But, I’m not, don’t think I’m complaining about it.”

He simply sighed, “you have a safe way home?”

”Yes sir,” you said, he wouldn’t admit that it did something to him. 

“A sober driver?”

”An uber,” you said, getting into the car with your friends. The laughing in the background alerting him that you were on your way. 

“Let me know whenever you get where you’re going safely. Okay, sweetheart?”

”You called me sweetheart.”

”I know. Goodnight, y/n.”

”Goodnight, Jack,” and it wasn’t too late after that that he received a slightly misspelled text that you were home safe. 

Luckily, you were someone that didn’t get hangovers, but that didn’t make the pain of acknowledging the outgoing call to ‘Jack Abbot’ or the mistyped message saying you made it home any easier. You silently cursed yourself as you spent the day to yourself, knowing that you would have to see him tomorrow. 

Going into your shift, you prepared yourself for anything, you weren’t prepared for the small black thermal to be filled with your favorite tea, with a note signed off from ‘pretty boy’ on there. You could only shake your head knowing exactly who the note and tea was from, along with the knowledge that he probably signed it off that way because of you. 

“Pretty boy? That’s an interesting sign off,” Dana spoke from behind you. 

“Yeah, it’s something,” you spoke, folding the note and putting it in your pocket, you simply sipped on your tea. It wasn’t until you saw both Jack and Robby walk out, a smirk on both of their faces. “If you have something to say, just get it out now.”

The two of them could only cackle in response before Jack finally spoke up, “look, I just didn’t take you as the type to drunk call, y/n. That’s all… or call me pretty boy for that matter.”

You could only drink your tea and walk away in response. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I’ll make them leave you alone,” you heard Dana say from behind you. 

Before you could process it, Jack had fallen into rhythm with you. “Where are you going, sweetheart?” 

“Nowhere in particular, pretty boy.”

”Look, I know I made fun of it, but I can’t say I hate it,” he speaks, honestly. 

“I didn’t hate you calling me sweetheart either.”

☆

 You tried to avoid her, you really did, but unfortunately Gloria was the type to always find a way to you. “Dr. y/l/n, I’m glad I could catch you before your shift actually started.”

You simply smiled, sipping on your tea, “crazy stuff, Gloria. How are you?”

”I’m good, I wanted to bring something up with you,” you remained silent, letting her continue. Looking behind her to see Jack already looking at you, “I was making sure that you knew, due to excellent patient satisfaction ratings on your part, you’ve been invited to our annual gala.”

”The one that is primarily only attendings?” you were surprised that it was being brought up to you. 

“Yes, some of the board members were extremely impressed by a lot of things on your record - patient satisfaction ratings being one of the bigger ones - but they like to see that you genuinely care about things that happen in this hospital and they were wanting to see some new faces.”

You laughed at the last part of the sentence, knowing that implied they were tired of seeing Jack and Robby being the main ones there every year. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

”You always have a choice, Doctor, but there is a wrong answer here,” she said, handing you the paper invitation. 

“Gee, thanks.” Now you had to find a dress. 

The next day, you texted Dana asking if she would be free at some point to go dress shopping with you soon before the gala, to which she was ecstatic to go with. So, the next day there was crossover in your days off - which was way too close to the gala for your liking - you went dress shopping. 

“Look, honey, all I’m going to say is that old man you’re into is going to lose it,” she said, laughing to herself once you stepped out of the dressing room. The dress was simple, but enough. A simple, long black dress with a white bow in the back to contrast. 

“Dana.”

”You know I’m right, you look good, kid.”

☆

Jack didn’t want to be here. He knew Robby didn’t want to be here either, but here they both were. Him with his whiskey, Robby choosing against drinking. “I still hate these things, I’m just waiting for Dana to get here, so she can talk shit with us like she usually does,” Robby said, speaking up first.

”Yeah, I don’t think these things will ever get anymore interesting, especially when all these donors care about are the surface level issues, never what actually matters,” Jack spoke, his eyes scanning the group of people that were here. “I just need Dana to get here to at least make sure I’m not falling asleep during all this.” 

“You know this is y/n’s first gala,” Robby said, gauging Jack’s reaction. 

A confused look came over his face, “wait, she was invited?”

”Yeah, your favorite resident isn’t just your favorite. Her patient satisfaction scores were above everyone. I know she didn’t learn that part from you.”

“Shut up, you already know that she’s one of the best that we have. She’s going to go far with whatever she decides to do,” he said, turning back towards the bar to set his now empty glass up. “I can’t wait to see where she goes in life.”

”You being a part of it? Or?” Robby wasn’t a stranger to asking Jack about you anymore. He knew his friend well enough to know that he was only hesitant of where things would go, in fear that things would end badly. Jack didn’t want to risk losing you to any extent. 

“If she wants me to be, I will be there.”

”If who wants you there, you’ll what?” he turned at the sound of your voice. His jaw dropped at how gorgeous you looked. Dana stepped into the circle after she finished talking to one of the donors. 

“She looks nice, don’t you think, Jack?” Dana asked, but she could clearly see that you had, in fact, left him speechless.

“Yeah,” he paused to gather his thoughts, “you look gorgeous, y/n.”

”Thank you, Jack. You don’t look too bad yourself,” you said, as if you weren’t absolutely losing it over the way he looked in a tux. “I really feel out of place here, I think I only talked to one other resident so far - and that was out of the five people we had to talk to to get over here.”

”You deserve to be here, sweetheart. Don’t worry,” he left it at that, watching as Dana and Robby left to go check in with Gloria. He came closer to you, unsure of what to do. He considered reaching for your hand, but as he go closer and the smell of your perfume hit him, all he could do was ball his fist before flexing his hand. ”I can’t even think straight around you during a work day, you have no idea how hard it is for me to keep my thoughts together right now.”

A smile grew on your face that he had seen countless times before, but this time was different. You weren’t any different, but the smile on your face meant something different. 

Before he could say anything else, he was interrupted by Gloria swooping in, “Dr. Abbot, Dr. y/l/n, I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Palmer. He was the one that saw some of your records and made sure that you were invited today,” she said, leaving the three of you alone. 

“Dr. y/l/n, I was extremely impressed when I saw and heard certain things about you. Patients love you, other doctors are incredibly impressed by you, you have a lot of potential,” he said, a cocky grin on his face that screamed ‘I have money and I hope that it shows’.

”Thank you Mr. Palmer, that means a lot,” you could feel Jack’s eyes on you. 

“Yeah, of course. You look stunning tonight, I would never miss the opportunity to ask someone so beautiful to dance,” he said, moving his hand for you to take. “Can I have this dance?”

You paused, not missing the glare that was sent in Mr. Palmer’s direction. You wanted so badly to object, but you knew this wasn’t the place that you could. “You may.”

Jack was heated. No. Correction, Jack was fuming. He could tell based off the way that he was looking at you, he wasn’t actually impressed, it was a base level statement. Unfortunately given context of time and place, he couldn’t do anything but watch from a distance. 

Robby and Dana had watched the whole interaction, moving closer to talk to Jack, but not before placing bets on how long he would last before cutting in. “You okay?” Dana asked, softly. 

“Just peachy,” his eyes didn’t leave you. He watched as the two of you started dancing, keeping watch of where he decided to set his hands - moreso how badly he wanted to be murdered. 

“You know, I told her whenever she bought the dress that it would catch your attention. Goals were achieved tonight,” Dana joked, hoping to add light to the situation, but he was still laser focused on you. 

“Yeah, it definitely caught my attention.”

You smiled to keep face, but truth was Mr. Palmer, who ironically was in fact named Chadwick, was a cocky son of a bitch that did not seem to have respect for you or any doctor for that matter. Conversing with him was nauseating, to say the least, but you knew that you had to keep up appearances - especially being a specially invited person. 

You were letting him go on and on about his recent golf experiences, when he suddenly changed the subject to you and how you looked in the dress - you knew immediately where he was going to go with this. You knew you were right when he talked about wanting to get out of here eventually and he tried to move his hand lower on your waist. 

“No, sir. I don’t think so,” you said, attempting to pull away, but he pulled you tighter. “You’re not getting what you want, even if you try pulling me tighter.”

”Oh, I would hate for something big to mess up that star reputation of yours, wouldn’t you?” he spoke, you had seen this move too many times. A very unfortunate abuse of powers, you were stuck.

“I know how good my reputation is, you can’t tarnish that, you prick.”

”Oh, but one word to Gloria and I can easily get you taken out of a program. I’d be cautious.”

“Yeah,” a familiar voice spoke from behind you, “I would be cautious, too. Get your hands off of her.” 

You didn’t know, but Robby and Dana had also moved in closer. You felt yourself let out a breath of relief. You stepped back and were on your way back to the bar when he had the audacity to say something else, “damn, I didn’t realize you got this far by fucking your ‘mentor’.”

The wire snapped. Anything that was holding Jack Abbot back from letting the man in front of him have it disappeared and before he knew it, the man was on the ground from a mean right hook. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

You stood there in awe. So much had happened in a short timespan, you didn’t even have the chance to recollect your thoughts. Robby had simply pulled Jack back just enough for him to process what was happening, “Jack, not here.”

Jack simply looked back and grabbed you, both of you immediately leaving. ack didn’t know what to say, the only thing keeping him in line right now was the click of your heels behind him. 

“Jack, wait up.” It wasn’t until you two had stepped outside that you had said it, but the only thing that let him know that was the cooler air hitting his face. 

“I’m not apologizing for defending you, sweetheart. I don’t care, he had no right to say what he did to you. I should have done way worse,” he kept going. Ranting on and on about the man that had disrespected you.

”Jack.”

“And him using, well attempting to, use the money thing against you made it even more of a dick move.” He kept ranting. 

“Jack, look at me,” you said, stepping closer to him. 

“What is it, sweetheart?” and before he knew it, your lips were on his. 

☆

Robby was going to hurt Jack. Not that he did anything specific, but after the events at the gala, he went MIA. He didn’t completely disappear, but he made an adamant point to avoid you and anyone he could at work. He was simply in a clock in, clock out mode. 

You tried your best not to care, you really did - it just took a lot to go from bits of nothing to the events of the gala back to square one. You missed seeing his black thermal next to your pink one or his little notes. Or him, for that matter. 

It was a total switch up from the emotional roller coaster that you had been on for the past eight months. How could he just go from this to normal? How could he just go from this to nothing with you?

It seemed too easy for him. Maybe it had been. 

Dana had made the suggestion that maybe you switch to days for a little bit, that way you weren’t constantly pressed on the issue that was Jack Abbot. She was also on the verge of attacking the man verbally - maybe physically - for what he was doing to you. 

Robby knew. Robby knew exactly what had happened, but he also knew his closest friend well enough that he couldn’t press on the issue in fear of making it worse. Jack was scared. You had eased him out from behind certain walls, but the certainty of a kiss made him want to build them back up. 

Jack knew, too. He knew that he was hurting you, but he couldn’t stop himself. He had his walls built up for a reason: to protect himself and you - but unfortunately, he was just harming you in the process. You switching from night shift for a few days per week is what made him immediately regret the decisions he had made after the gala. 

He showed up an extra 40 minutes early when you worked the day shift, just so that he could see you for longer than what he had been. He found peace in the night and darkness, but you were the one that was bringing him light for the time being. 

“I expected to find you up here,” he heard Robby say, eventually sensing him right behind him. 

“I know. I knew someone would know I was up here.”

”She knows too, she’s who sent me up here to make sure you didn’t jump,” Robby said, making Jack turn to face him. “You should talk to her. She’s holding it together, but she’s not doing good, man. I’m not going to say it’s your fault-“

”But you want to though.”

”Yeah. You might be her mentor, but at least she didn’t pick up on your small lack of emotional intelligence.” 

“I fear it’s too late for her to forgive me. I don’t want it to be, I-“

”You love her?”

”Yeah, I do.”

”So, you have to fix this, Jack,” and before he could respond, Robby left him on his own.  

☆

It started off gradually. You went back to working just night shifts, tired of letting him get to you. You were cordial, you did your job, and at the end of the day you immediately went home. 

The way that you and Jack worked together didn’t change, he still rightfully encouraged you to be the best doctor that you could be - he would blame himself if this directly hindered your career. 

“Sweet cheeks, why so glum?” you heard Myrna’s voice ring out from behind you. 

“I’m okay, Myrna. Also, sweet cheeks?” you questioned, sending a confused look her way. 

“You’re sweet and-“

”You know, I’m okay without you elaborating.”

”Suit yourself. You seem upset, who hurt ya? I can hurt them like I hurt my husband,” she said, making you glad she was still in cuffs. 

You smiled at the older woman, “I appreciate you, Myrna, but I promise I’m okay.” You removed yourself as far from her as you could, but when you heard the doors open, you made direct eye contact with him. You didn’t miss the two thermal cups in his hand. 

It was a silent exchange, he didn’t say anything else; opting to simply set down the mug and send a nod your way before he went to talk to Robby for handoffs.

“Have you two talked any since the gala?” Dana asked, pulling you away from your thoughts. Simply shaking your head, she let out a sigh. “I don’t like to see either of you hurting like this, especially you. He’s just too stubborn for his own good.”

“I know,” you said, sadly. “I just don’t feel like it’s my place to try and fix things as he’s the one that MIA, I just miss us - not that it was anything for sure, but it still felt like enough.”

“He’ll get it eventually,” Dana said, putting her jacked on and grabbing her bag, “I just hope sooner than later. Alright, hun, I’m heading out. Holler if you need anything.”

With that, it was you and the rest of night shift - and Robby, who couldn’t leave on time to save his own life. You fell into rhythm with Chen and Ellis as they walked during handoffs.

”Haven’t seen you with your bodyguard recently,” Chen said, his tone even. 

“My bodyguard?”

Ellis made a face and Chen could only laugh at you, “Abbot.”

“He’s not my bodyguard,” you grumbled, choosing to ignore the two of them. 

“That’s not what I heard, especially with him punching some guy out for you at that gala. A non-bodyguard wouldn’t do that,” Ellis said, a pointed look on her face. 

“Whatever.”

☆

Dana had decided to have a small, sweet get together for her birthday; she was able to leave her daughters with a babysitter and just wanted to spend some time with the people she cared about most. This led to you being sat near Heather, Robby, Frank, Cassie, Samira, and Jack, at a table in one of Dana’s favorite bars. 

You elected to ignore the ongoing sense of Jack’s eyes on you as you talked to Samira and Cassie. Cassie was ranting about her ex making a stop in the hospital for something as stupid as the skateboarding accident, but her voice kept fading into the background as you looked to see Jack’s eyes already on you. 

“Can you guys just make up already? The tension is actually insane,” Samira whisper-shouted to you. 

“Please, we’re begging,” Cassie added, “it even makes my heart beat witnessing all of this. It’s tiring. Just kiss, make up, maybe do more, we sure as hell won’t stop you.”

You laughed, “don’t you guys have jobs? My life and relationships should not be the primary focus of your day. Now, I don’t know about you guys, but I need a drink - will one of you guys come with?” 

Samira was already getting up when Cassie spoke up, “I’ll come with you, but I won’t get anything.” She told the table where you guys were going before she caught up to you. “Wait, y/n/n, isn’t that, uh, what was his name? That fling you had last summer?”

”Who? Lucas?” you asked, looking up to see him on the other side of the bar, you sent a small smile his way that he immediately reciprocated. He moved away from some of the friends that you recognized and headed your way. ”Hey, Lucas. How are you?”

”I’m good,” he nodded towards the two other girls around you as you introduced them. “You ladies getting anything to drink? They can be on me. y/n, you want your usual? Or are you drinking drinking tonight?”

You didn’t miss the smirk that was on his face, “I’ll have my usual, but I wouldn’t be opposed to a round of shots for us, too. Don’t think you’re going to get lucky though just for buying us drinks, Lucas.”

”Can I not just buy a pretty girl drinks without any ulterior motives?” he spoke, smoothly before turning to the bartender. “Four shots, a strawberry mojito, and - would you ladies want anything else?”

”I’ll have a tequila sunrise,” Samira mentioned. 

“I’m not drinking, but thank you,” Cassie added. Lucas nodded before getting the order finished. 

“I’m going to go back to the table, are you cool here with Samira?” Cassie asked, looking to you for a response. 

“I’m good, thank you though. You think I should drink the extra shot?”

”As long as you can handle it, y/n/n,” she said with a laugh. Turning back to the table, she let out a cackle at the sight in front of her: Dana and Robby watching Abbot, trying to hide the smiles on their faces as Jack looked like he was about to lose his shit - if he hadn’t already lost it. 

Once Samira got her drink and took the shot with you guys, she turned back to the table to already see most eyes on you and Lucas. “Oh, I’m not saying I can see steam rising from Jack’s head, but the man could very easily have steam coming from his ears.”

”He can’t get mad if he’s not going to say anything about how he feels,” you spoke honestly. Lucas turned and immediately recognized the doctor that had been looming the last time he had to go to the ER. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a look like that from a man that wasn’t in love,” Lucas said, taking a sip of his beer. 

“What?” 

He shrugged, “He wouldn’t look at me like he wants to kill me, if he wasn’t in love with you.”

“Random man does make a fair point,” Samira said, “can I please have your permission to stir the pot some? Just to see what the old man does?”

Lucas laughed at that, “just don’t get me murdered if you do, I have a lot to live for.”

”I don’t know what you have planned, but do what you have to do at this point,” you said, mentally preparing for what could happen. 

When Samira sat down, she immediately turned and told Cassie what was going on - she didn’t exactly have a master plan, but she did know it wouldn’t be difficult to get him to his breaking point. 

“Why’d you leave her up there, Samira?” he said, blinking slowly before taking a sip of his water. 

“She seemed okay up there, plus I’m not one to interfere on romantic matters,” Samira said, earning a laugh from Cassie and Dana. Robby could tell based off of Samira’s face that nothing was actually going on, she was just saying stuff at this point. Jack simply rolled his eyes before going back to his y/n watching. 

“I remember them being a thing,” Heather added to the mix, “they were cute, it didn’t work out just because of schedules though. Honestly, if his job changed any, I don’t think they should avoid trying again.”

Jack’s face remained still, but everyone at the table was on the same page: push his buttons just enough for him to do something. His attention was brought back to the bar at the sound of your laugh, which was usually one of his favorite sounds, but not when it was because of another man. ”He can’t be that funny.”

Everyone at the table could barely contain their laughter anymore, continuing to say things in hopes that it would finally make him get up and talk to you - but for whatever reason, nothing was working. Maybe it was just simple self control?

Jack kept his eye on the table, the noise of the bar drowning out as he waited for you to return to the table. He didn’t see you come back, but the smell of your perfume had has head snapping up, “you have fun, sweetheart?”

You smirked, the nickname usually kept between the two of you. “Yes, I did. Thank you for asking.” You continued talking to everyone at the table, but didn’t miss the feeling of eyes dancing between you and him. 

“Jesus Christ,” Robby muttered, shaking his head and you thought you could see Dana’s eye twitch. 

“Bitch,” Samira said, eyes wide, “I swear to god, if you do not leave tonight with him, I will hurt both of you.”

”Same,” the collective said.  

More time passed, but nothing happened. Jack didn’t really say anything else to you and you assumed that he had given up on whatever there was with the two of you. Before you knew it, another hour had passed and the table that was full before was down to just you, Robby, and Jack - everyone else going home together so they made it back safely. 

Robby looked at both of you before he started, “You guys need to figure your shit out. If you need me here to talk it out, cool - note, I won’t stay past anything other than conversation though.”Jack didn’t say anything. You didn’t know if that made you feel better or worse. “Okay, so this is the part where the conversation happens, if you were unaware.”

He stayed silent again, this time you weren’t having it though. “I appreciate the attempt, Robby, but I think everyone has tried hard enough.” You tried your best to keep your voice even, turning to grab your purse and move your chair, you were ready to make the walk home or get an uber home. 

“y/n, wait,” Jack’s voice finally said, “I- Can I drive you home?”

You looked from Robby to Jack, “I was just going to get an uber. It’s all good though.”

”y/n. Please,” at that your eyes turned to him. He was pleading with you, saying a million things at once. A million things that he had intended to say, but you saw it - you knew him well enough to see it. 

“Okay.” 

“Well, kiddos, if that’s all settled, I’m headed out. Let me know when you guys make it back safe though. I’ll see you guys at shift change,” and with that it was just you and Jack. 

”Are you ready to head out or?” you asked, breaking the silence that had taken a moment to settle between the two of you. 

“I’m okay staying for a second,” another beat of silence, “you look beautiful tonight, by the way. I just didn’t want to add fuel to the fire that our friends were waiting on, only reason I didn’t say anything sooner.”

”Yeah, there’s a lot of things you could have said sooner.” Was the comment a bit mean? Maybe. Warranted? Yes.

He sighed, “I know. Trust me, I know.”

”Okay, so if you knew, why? Why did you drag this on, push me away, all of that? I would much rather you just said that you didn’t want something with me than drag me along.”

”Sweetheart,” he said, reaching his hand across the table to yours, “trust me, I want you. So bad that I fear it could kill me. I just- I pushed you away because I was scared and for that I’m so sorry. In no way did I want you to feel unwanted.”

”Scared? Of what?” you weren’t even mad at him anymore, you just wanted answers. 

“Scared that, if I admit how I feel about you that I would lose you.”

You stayed silent a moment, tilting your head in confusion, “you thought you would lose me? So you pushed me away?”

”It sounds stupid like that, but I’ve lost so much in my life already. You mean so much to me and I didn’t want to risk losing that. I love you, y/n, and me admitting that made it real. And when it’s real, I have something to lose,” his eyes met yours again, “I can’t lose you.” 

You didn’t know how to respond. He had just admitted that he was in love with you and all you could do was look at him for a moment - his hand on yours was the only thing grounding you. ”I love you, too, Jack. I just didn’t deserve you pushing me away. You mean too much to me for that.”

”I know, and I’m so sorry that I put you through that,” a small smile appeared on his face, “I’lll make it up to you, I promise. Let me get you home.” 

You didn’t know if you should, but all disagreements flew out the window when you saw the way he was looking at you. “Okay.”

☆

As the sun eased into the room the day after, you felt yourself pulled back towards the body behind you. You felt at ease, at peace. A night of repeated ‘I love you’s and ‘I’m sorry’s to make up for lost time. A morning routine that the two of you developed in a few hours, him making breakfast for the two of you and you being the comforting presence he needed in that moment. 

The two of you made up for lost time before you had to prepare for work. Stopping at your apartment so that you could grab your scrubs and work bag, he looked at the pictures you had around of friends, family, and the memories that you had made - his mind immediately going to the new ones the two of you could make. 

Opening your cabinet to grab one of your thermal mugs, he saw the multiple pink thermals that stayed there, “I didn’t realize you had a problem.”

“I have at least one for every day of the week and then some for if I don’t feel like washing them, it’s a system that works” you said with a shrug of your shoulders. He let out a light chuckle at your ‘system’, but he couldn’t ignore the way that seeing two of his black thermal mugs in there made him happy. 

“I see I’ve made guest appearances here that I didn’t even know about,” he said, placing his hands on your waist from behind. “Are we stopping for tea before work?”

”Of course, pretty boy. Your favorite resident can’t be dragging,” you said, heading out. 

The two of you made your way through the cafe and into the Emergency Department, not missing the way that Dana’s face lit up at the two of you entering together. 

“I see the two of you finally made up,” Dana said, a smirk on her face, “and based on the way your skin is glowing, maybe more than just a make up.”

“Thank God, you guys needed to do something,” Robby said, nearing the nurses station. “I was genuinely so close to actually losing it, you have no idea.” 

------

taglist: @dayswithoutcoffee @dragonsondragons @literazine

hope you guys enjoyed!! feedback is always welcome

xoxo

ash

[foxtrology]

saturated (1)

dr!joel x resident!reader

inspired by the pitt on hbo | series | ao3 link

notes: this took me way too long to write. but i had to. couldn't stop watching the pitt and thinking about our old man. joel is basically if dr robby and dr abbot had a morally complicated, emotionally constipated lovechild. also abby does not kill joel in this, everyone is friends! god bless america.

warnings: this contains intense and graphic deceptions of medical trauma, emergency room scenarios, death (including children), physical violence, workplace assault, substance use, bodily fluids, mass casualty events, and realistic portrayals of burnout, grief and PTSD in a high stakes-medical environment.

it also includes themes of misogyny, harassment, and implicit threats of sexual violence. reader discretion is strongly advised. please take care while reading--especially if you are sensitive to medical distress, depictions of pediatric injury or real-time crisis response.

word count: 15.k

─────

The morning of the Fourth of July in Austin, Texas, feels like a moment held in the lung, right before the exhale.

That breathless pause before fireworks, before the sirens scream and the ER radios stuttering with trauma codes and stroke alerts and the endless crush of the heat-baked, alcohol-soaked chaos that follows any major American holiday. It’s always the calm before the storm—if you could even call it calm.

You pull into the staff garage at 5:52 a.m. and sit in the car for a moment longer, letting the silence stretch. Black scrubs still freshly laundered, badge clipped, hair pulled back, and your shoes already forming to your feet like muscle memory. You reach for your tumbler, still warm from the coffee Joel handed you in the kitchen an hour ago, already half-drunk.

There’s that brief moment you consider calling out. Just for today. Just to stay in that house, in that bed with him, where he kisses your bare shoulder before telling you to be safe.

But you won’t. You never do.

Because no matter how bad the ER gets—and it always gets bad—this is the only place that makes any kind of sense to you.

Inside, the air conditioning hits like a slap, and you walk past the security station where Bill gives you a small nod, already sipping from his thermos like a man bracing for war.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says. His voice is gravel, his beard immaculate. “You ready for the circus?”

You offer a tired smile. “You know we don't get clowns. We get drunk uncles with bottle rockets.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he scans another nurse’s badge behind you. “Same difference.”

The ER already smells like overcooked coffee and sterile gauze, and the waiting room—visible through the thick glass partition—looks like an airport at Christmas. People slumped against the wall, some pale, some bleeding, some just desperate for help they’re not sure they need. A woman with a crying toddler in one arm and a vomit bag in the other is standing at the triage desk. Behind her, a man in a tank top clutches his ribs and moans like he’s in labor.

Inside the main ER pod, the low hum of monitors, pagers, and movement never really stops. Maria Miller stands at the hub, perfectly composed, her hands wrapped around a travel mug and a tablet tucked in the crook of her arm. 

“Six a.m. and already short three nurses,” she mutters as you step up beside her. Her eyes flick to you. “Happy Fourth. You look like hell.”

You arch a brow. “Why thank you, Maria.”

She smirks, amused. “I saw your name on the schedule and bumped Henry’s start time earlier. Figured you’d need someone to boss around.”

“Nice. Nothing says holiday spirit like free labor.”

Her mouth twitches into a smile before she heads off toward the trauma bay. You breathe in the scent of antiseptic and coffee. Your shift hasn’t even started, and already you can feel the heat pressing behind your eyes.

“Doc!” Jesse calls out, sliding past with an IV pole in one hand, his badge swinging. “Your favorite guy’s back. Bed three.”

“Which one?”

“Golf cart DUI. Same guy from last month. Says he’s got chest pain.”

You groan, snagging your stethoscope from your pocket and making your way toward the row of curtained bays.

“Hey, doc,” Marlene calls, intercepting you with a chart. “You’ve got a belly pain in seven. NPO since last night, vitals stable, but she’s already mad she’s waited an hour.”

“Great,” you sigh. “Let me guess—says she’s dying?”

“Says she wants to die,” Marlene says dryly. “Progress.”

Inside Bed 3, the familiar face of Mr. Golf Cart is flushed and sweaty, his eyes darting from you to the EKG leads on his chest. He tries to smile through chapped lips. 

“Hey there, doc. Long time no see.”

“It’s been three weeks,” you reply, glancing at the monitor. “You said chest pain?”

“Felt like a raccoon sittin’ on my sternum.”

You don’t bother asking how he knows what that feels like.

“I’ll get your labs and a troponin. Don’t eat or drink anything, and don’t try to leave AMA again.”

“Cross my heart,” he grins.

“You did that last time too.”

Outside the room, Tommy is coming in from the ambulance bay, gloved hands smudged with dried blood, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He spots you and tips his chin up.

“You get the kid with the fireworks burn?”

You didn't fucking get the people who lit up fireworks before the actual holiday.

“Not yet.”

He shrugs. “He’s all yours. Level 2, maybe deeper dermal. Holding it together, though.”

“Great,” you say, and Tommy claps you on the shoulder as he moves past, already shouting something to Frank who’s restocking their rig with trauma dressings.

Frank pauses to shoot you a quick smile. “Morning, doc.”

“You ready for hell?” you ask.

“Born in it,” he replies with a wink, disappearing into the supply closet.

By 6:40, the line to triage has doubled. You slip into Exam 7 where Abby and Mel are squinting at a portable chest X-ray.

“I think it’s a widened mediastinum,” Abby says, uncertain.

Mel frowns. “I think it’s a terrible film.”

You glance between them and sigh. “You’re both right. Let’s get a CT angio. Rule out dissection.”

Abby lets out a breath. Mel nods, jotting it into the chart.

You turn to leave, only to be stopped by Henry in the hallway.

“I finished my charting on the chest pain in four,” he says. “Do you want me to see the laceration in bed nine?”

You nod. “It’s a head lac. Two-centimeter frontal scalp. Walk-in. You can staple it.”

Henry brightens just slightly before hurrying off, excited to staple someone's scalp.

Kathleen stands at the nurse’s station, arms crossed, lips pressed into a line as she watches three nurses hustle to cover six rooms. She barely glances at you, but when she does, her voice is velvet over steel.

“You better love this job, sweetheart. Because it sure as hell doesn’t love us back.”

You offer her a tired grin. “I’m in a toxic relationship with medicine.”

“I’d say get out,” she murmurs, tapping something into the computer, “but I’ve been saying that for twenty years.”

You’re interrupted by Ellie appearing behind you like a caffeinated ghost, her voice quick and panicked. “I just had a guy vomit blood on my shoes and I don’t think that was in the orientation packet.”

You blink. “Was it a large volume?”

“Like a tarantula of blood exploded out of his mouth.”

“Sounds like a GI bleed. Grab Marlene and get him on O2, two large bore IVs, and get a CBC, type and screen, and a bolus of saline.”

Ellie stares at you, eyes wide. “...I love you.”

“You’ll hate me in two hours.”

Dina slides past a moment later, rolling her eyes as she scribbles a note onto a file. “You need me for the kid from the group home?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Bed twelve.”

“I’ll bring stickers,” she mutters, already moving.

You turn a corner to find Riley standing outside a room, fidgeting with her stethoscope.

“I tried to get a BP but the patient wouldn’t stop yelling at me.”

“Welcome to emergency medicine,” you say, opening the curtain.

The hours between 7 and 9 blur into a tangle of trauma activations, overdoses, and one elderly woman who insists she’s seeing angels. Joel appears somewhere around 7:30, silent and gruff, already charting by the trauma desk. His sleeves are rolled up, hair still damp from the shower both of you shared early this morning. He looks at you like he’s already tired for both of you.

You pass behind him and your hand grazes the small of his back, just enough for him to shift his weight and glance at you from the corner of his eye. That’s all. That’s enough.

He doesn’t need to say anything. Nobody talks about it, but everyone knows.

By 9 a.m., you’ve had three traumas, two psych consults, and a toddler with a swallowed battery. A man in a star-spangled bikini was just escorted to the waiting room by Bill, Ellie and Abby giggling in each other's arms watching the scene.

You think you might be sweating through your scrubs.

You duck into the breakroom, finally, and find Tess already in there, sleeves rolled, sipping black coffee and glaring at the microwave like it owes her money.

“Fourth of July,” she says without looking at you. “God bless America.”

You groan and collapse into the chair next to her. “How many stabbings so far?”

“Three. One with a fork. Guy said he was trying to get the last sausage off the grill.”

You snort, leaning back and letting the moment hold. Outside, another ambulance pulls into the bay. The day is only just beginning. And no one’s getting out early.

Just as you sat down, Ellie burst into the break room like her body was still moving faster than her brain could catch up. Her face was flushed with adrenaline, lips parted, hands trembling just enough to tell you this wasn’t a drill.

“Hey—hey—uh—can you—can you come? Right now. It’s that guy in Bay Two. He—he fucking lunged at me.”

Tess straightened up immediately, coffee forgotten. You were already on your feet, coffee sloshing onto the table as you moved past Ellie, her hand catching your elbow.

“I didn’t even touch him. I was just checking his vitals and he went off. Said women shouldn’t be in medicine, shouldn’t ‘touch him,’ called me a goddamn slut, and then he lunged. I didn’t—I mean I moved back—he didn’t land it, but—”

“I’ve got it,” you said, your voice already lowering, the calm hard edge setting in. “You’re okay. You did everything right.”

Tess looked like she wanted to follow, to keep an eye on things, but you shook your head. “Stay here. I got this.”

You headed for Bay Two with a kind of purposeful gait that had nurses flattening themselves against the wall. Marlene caught your eye from the main desk and gave you a look, sharp and knowing. She didn’t need an explanation.

The man in Bay Two was middle-aged, built like someone who spent more time drinking beer than going to the gym, his hands cuffed to the rails, red-faced and sneering. A big, mean, fleshy kind of guy with the kind of grin that made your stomach twist—not in fear, but in a deep, guttural revulsion.

“Here she is,” he crowed when he saw you enter. “Another whore with a stethoscope. They just handing out medical degrees to anyone with a pussy now, huh?”

Your heart didn’t even skip. You had heard worse. But not recently. Not in Joel's ER.

You approached, eyes flicking to the security strap readouts, the monitor, the vitals. Elevated BP, slightly tachycardic, but stable. You stood just out of reach, arms crossed, voice perfectly even.

“Sir, you’re in the emergency department of Austin General. My name is Dr. —”

“Don’t want your fucking name. Don’t want your hands on me either,” he snarled. “Get me a real doctor.”

“That would be me,” you said, unfazed. “You assaulted a medical student. You will now deal with me.”

“You little bitch. You think you got any right to—”

He spat. At you.

The glob landed on your scrub top just left of your collar, thick and glistening.

You didn’t flinch. You refused to give him that.

But when he jerked forward against the cuffs—catching you off guard with a sudden surge of movement—his nail scratched across the base of your neck. Not deep, but enough to burn. Enough to make Marlene, who had followed you at a distance, shout for security.

Enough for Joel, who’d been passing by and caught the tail end of that violent motion, to come to a dead stop at the doorway like a goddamn thundercloud.

“What the fuck did he just do?” Joel’s voice was low, calm. Terrifying.

You blinked, your hand gently coming up to feel the small scratch. Warmth there. Nothing that needed more than a Tegaderm. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

You turned to him, quiet, eyes locking. It was one of those moments where a single breath passed and everything unsaid between you stood on the edge of a blade.

“Let me treat him,” Joel said, stepping closer. His voice wasn’t a request.

“Joel.”

He turned to you—deliberate, slow. “You got a goddamn cut on your neck. You’re not treating him. You treat the people who deserve you.”

And then, to your absolute surprise, Joel stepped in.

The patient was smirking again. “Oh, now we got a real man in here,” he said, a mocking grin. “What are you, her boyfriend? Fucking lucky bastard.”

Joel didn’t say a word. He just walked over, gloved up in one fluid motion, and began to examine the man with a detached, surgical coldness that sent chills down your spine.

“What, she send you in ‘cause she can’t handle me? Tch. Figures. You look like the type to put a leash on your bitch, huh?”

Joel wrapped the BP cuff tight—too tight.

“You son of a—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Joel said evenly.

The man froze.

Joel leaned over the bed, voice low and sharp as a scalpel. “You don’t talk to my staff that way. You sure as hell don’t touch anyone. And if you so much as blink wrong again, you’re not gonna like how I handle it. You understand me?”

“You can’t talk to me like—”

Joel pressed the cuff bulb once more. The man hissed in pain.

“I asked if you understood.”

The man’s breath was shallow, face flushing again. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Jesus. Fine.”

You stood just outside the curtain, your jaw tight, watching Joel work with a professionalism sharpened by fury. You’d seen him rough before—on the job, during trauma—but never like this. Never with his jaw clenched like that. Never with his hands steady as stone but his body bristling with quiet rage.

Kathleen appeared beside you at some point, arms crossed.

“Jesus,” she muttered, watching through the curtain. “What happened?”

“He assaulted Ellie,” you said. “Tried to hit me.”

Kathleen’s eyes flicked to the small scratch at your collar. Her mouth went tight. “Should’ve let Bill loose on him.”

Joel finished dressing the man’s wound with the grace of a wolf playing surgeon. Then he turned, gloves off, and met your gaze. His face was unreadable. But his eyes told you everything.

He was done being polite. For the rest of the shift—and likely the day—he’d be wound tight. He would do his job. But that thin line he normally walked between professionalism and unfiltered rage? It was gone.

You met him halfway in the hall, his hand brushing yours for a second, a brief, nearly invisible contact.

“You okay?” he asked, low, barely audible.

“I’m fine.”

“He hurt you.”

“Barely. Joel—don’t do something that’ll get you written up.”

He exhaled slowly, jaw ticking. “Let ‘em write me up.”

You stared at each other in that fluorescent hallway, footsteps pounding, phones ringing, voices shouting. But all you heard was him.

Behind you, Ellie reappeared, her face tight and pale but determined.

“I’m okay,” she said quietly, more to Joel than you. “He didn’t land it.”

Joel nodded once. “You handled yourself.”

Ellie smiled, just barely. “You going to tell HR about your bedside manner back there?”

He didn’t even look at her. “HR can kiss my ass.”

The ER didn’t slow. The next wave of traumas rolled in before you could even sit. A car crash. A fireworks explosion that nearly cost a teenager his hand. Jesse passed you gauze with one hand and held pressure on a neck wound with the other. Frank and Tommy burst through the ambulance bay doors with another critical, blood on their uniforms, sweat streaking their faces.

The air smelled like burnt flesh and Betadine. The walls were closing in with noise and heat and the never-ending, never fucking ending churn of human pain.

You didn’t stop. You didn’t flinch. Joel didn’t leave your side for more than five minutes at a time. And no one said a word about it. But they all saw. They always did. Even when they pretended they didn’t.

Especially when it came to you and Joel. The glances in the hall, the stillness that took over his body when your name was called out overhead, the way his eyes always found you first, scanning for blood, for bruises, for the smallest fucking thing that might’ve happened in the last ten minutes he hadn’t been watching.

Everyone saw it.

And no one said a goddamn word.

Because Joel Miller didn’t take kindly to anyone prying. And more importantly—he was a better doctor when you were around. They all knew it. It made them like you more. It made them protect you, in a way. Quietly. Stealthily. With a kind of respect that was hard-earned in a place like this.

But respect didn’t stop the world from burning. The ER was a fucking pressure cooker by the time the sun hit its apex. And even though you couldn’t see it from inside—no windows, no light except the harsh fluorescents—the shift in the air was tangible. It was the crescendo. The peak.

The waiting room had filled an hour ago. Now it was bursting. You heard the shouting first. Low and muffled from behind the secured double doors, the ones that kept the main ED from descending into chaos every time someone with a sprained ankle thought they were dying. Then the angry thuds—boots on linoleum, chairs scraping, someone pounding their fist on the glass partition near triage.

You caught the tail end of it from the nurse’s station. Kathleen had her jaw set, arms crossed, standing like a statue of stone as she radioed for Bill. She didn’t flinch as someone outside yelled about waiting four fucking hours with a sick kid. About how the government should burn for the state of the American healthcare system. About how their taxes should be buying better care.

How fucking ironic telling a healthcare worker that.

Jesse muttered under his breath as he wiped his hands on a towel, “People think ERs are fucking drive-thrus now.”

“They’ve always thought that,” Kathleen snapped.

You heard the buzz of the security door unlocking and then saw Bill stride out into the storm, calm as a mountain, broad-shouldered and stone-eyed. The crowd parted enough for him to speak in that deep, measured voice of his. You didn’t hear the words, but the tone was clear—this isn’t a negotiation.

Someone pushed. Big mistake.

Bill moved faster than anyone expected, crowding the man backward with one hand braced on his chest, steering him toward the wall. “Don’t. Touch. My. Staff,” you heard him growl.

The man’s arms lifted—weak, blustering, drunk or angry or both—but Bill wasn’t even winded. He radioed for APD, kept himself between the chaos and the front desk, and when the doors buzzed shut again ten seconds later, the noise behind them didn’t stop—but it dulled.

“Fourth of fucking July,” Marlene muttered as she walked by. “Every goddamn year.”

The real storm, though—the one that mattered—was what came through the ambulance bay.

The first call came at 10:41. Child. Near-drowning. Backyard pool. No adult supervision. ETA: two minutes.

Then another. And another. And another.

You stood in Trauma One as Maria directed the incoming flow like a symphony conductor, her tablet clenched in her hand like a sword. “Put the six-year-old in Trauma Two. Get Pediatrics paged down here. Respiratory on standby. Tell CT we need head and C-spine for all drownings, intubate as needed.”

“Where the fuck are we supposed to put them?” Jesse asked, not even trying to hide his frustration. “We’re at max capacity!”

Maria’s voice sliced through the noise. “Make room. Stack if you have to. Double rooms. Trauma hall overflow. I don’t give a shit. We are not turning away pediatric codes.”

And you were moving before you even processed it. Pulling on gloves, snapping goggles over your eyes, shoving trauma shears into your pocket.

The first kid—boy, seven or eight—was cyanotic, limp, his chest rising only slightly under bag ventilation. Joel took point, barking orders with brutal precision.

“1 mg epinephrine IV push. Get ready to tube. Peds crash cart now. We need a line—Jesse, get that line. You, get that IO if you have to.”

“Got it.”

“Push faster.”

The parents were in the hallway screaming. You didn’t stop. There was no room for that. You could fall apart later.

The second kid—blonde, five, blue lips, vomit around her mouth—was rushed into your room. You caught her from the gurney mid-transfer, nearly dropping to your knees with the dead weight.

“Started CPR on scene,” Tommy said breathlessly. “No pulse for four minutes. They pulled her from the shallow end.”

You moved on instinct. “Start compressions. Get the crash cart. I need 0.01 mg/kg epi. Let’s go.”

You worked until your arms felt like jelly. Until sweat was dripping down your spine, soaking through your black scrubs. Until your fingers ached from bagging, from checking pulses, from writing code notes that your brain refused to absorb. You snapped orders, half-yelled at Abby for hesitating too long on a tube size, and didn’t even feel guilty.

These were kids. And they were dying.

By the time you got the third one—a boy, barely three—he was already cold. Tommy handed you the chart with blood on his cheek, his eyes hollow.

“Nothing in the field,” he said.

You stared at the kid. You didn’t say anything. You intubated anyway. You tried.

Joel came in halfway through and didn’t even look at the clock. He just picked up the ambu bag, his face carved from stone.

“Come on, baby boy,” he murmured, almost too quiet to hear. “Come on. Breathe.”

The rhythm of the bagging. The flatline. The futile compressions.

You heard Mel whisper, “He’s gone.”

But you kept going. Just long enough. Just to make sure.

When you finally called it—when the silence came—you felt it ripple through the room like a knife through skin.

Joel didn’t move. He looked down at the boy for a long time. Then up at you. His jaw clenched.

You looked away. You left the room. And still, the day didn’t stop.

Another crash. Fireworks embedded in a thigh. A man who’d tried to jump a fence with sparklers in both hands and shattered his femur on landing. Someone else with a roman candle burn across their cheek and no fucking idea how they got it.

Again. It was daylight. Why the fuck are people doing fireworks already.

You caught a glimpse of Ellie across the trauma hallway, covered in soot, helping Riley wrap a dressing. Her hands were steady. Her mouth was set.

Marlene passed you a water and said, “You need to drink something or you’re going to pass out.”

You didn’t even realize your hands were shaking.

By the time you made it back to Joel, he was standing at the med station with his palms flat on the counter, shoulders hunched, breathing slow and heavy like a man trying not to crack his ribs from the inside out.

You stood behind him. Quiet. Present.

“He was so young,” you said, voice hoarse.

He nodded once. “I know.”

“We did everything.”

“I know.”

You didn’t touch him. You couldn’t. Not here. But his hand brushed yours when you reached for the pen, just the smallest press of his pinky against your skin. It was enough.

You stayed like that for a breath. Then two. Then the radio crackled again. Another code. Another ambulance. No rest. Not today. And not now.

It was barely past eleven and the ER had transformed from a battlefield into something more biblical. Plagues of chaos. Floods of noise. Screams from the trauma bays, sobbing from the waiting room, blood on the linoleum, and no time to wipe it up before someone else was bleeding over it.

You were halfway through stitching up a forehead lac—nine-year-old girl, tripped chasing her older brother with a sparkler—when your pager buzzed again. Rapid succession. Three back-to-back calls.

You looked down at the kid, her tiny legs swinging off the gurney, lips trembling.

“You’re doing amazing,” you told her. “Almost done, sweetheart. Just five more.”

She gave a brave nod, but her chin wobbled anyway. Jesse handed you the next suture without speaking, the tension behind his eyes saying more than words ever could.

The second the stitches were in, you stripped your gloves and tossed them toward the bin, already moving. The noise hit you in waves as you emerged back into the hallway. Another stretcher wheeled past, pushed by Tommy and Frank, both breathless.

“Sparkler injury!” Frank shouted. “We’ve got a foreign object in the left orbit. Firework’s still in the goddamn eye!”

You blinked. “Still in?”

“It’s lodged. Like a fucking spear.”

They wheeled the teen—maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen—into Trauma Four. Blood was pouring from the socket, and he was screaming loud enough to rattle your skull. The jagged metal tip of a bent, burnt-out sparkler jutted from the flesh where his eye should’ve been. His hands were tied down. One eye wide with terror.

“Why the fuck are people lighting fireworks before the sun even sets?” you muttered, pulling on a fresh gown.

“Because Americans are stupid,” Marlene said flatly, handing you saline flushes.

It was chaos in the room. Abby tried to push meds, but the kid kept thrashing.

“Stop, stop, stop,” Abby shouted. “I can’t get the vein!”

“Hold him down,” you snapped. “Get a sedative on board. Joel!”

He was already beside you, steady hands gripping the boy’s shoulders, voice firm and low, “You gotta stay still, kid. We’re gonna fix you up. Just hold still.”

“But my eye! My fucking eye—!”

“We see it,” you said. “You’re not gonna lose more if you let us help. We’ve got you.”

Blood ran down your gloves. The sparkler was still hot when Tommy pulled it from the wound—safely, slowly, with Joel guiding the angle—and the kid passed out from the pain.

You stepped back, adrenaline crashing into your bloodstream. No time to breathe. No time to break. The second you stepped out of Trauma Four, Ellie sprinted up, pale and winded.

“There’s a kid in triage with full-body hives,” she gasped. “Face is like—bad.They think it’s an allergic reaction. Face paint.”

You blinked. “Fucking face paint?”

“Red, white, and blue stripes,” she said, still panting. “Apparently it was ‘organic.’ Mom said he’s never had allergies before.”

“Where is he?”

“Exam 6. Jesse’s already pushing Benadryl but he’s wheezing. He’s scared.Like full-on panicking.”

You followed her down the hall, cutting through noise and stretchers and the rising scent of blood and chlorine and burning hair. The kid was around six, covered in angry red welts, his face ballooning, lips beginning to swell.

His mom was sobbing.

“I didn’t know—oh God, I didn’t know—I thought it was just paint, it was from Whole Foods, it said natural—”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, crouching down. “Hey buddy, can you take a deep breath for me?”

He tried. It wheezed out in a thin rasp.

“Epi,” you said. “Right now. Auto-injector to the thigh. Push fluids. O2.”

Ellie already had the mask on him. Jesse handed you the pen.You jammed the injector into his leg through his shorts. He jolted, eyes wide, and then started to cry. That was a goodsign.

“Good job,” you said, breathless. “You’re gonna be okay, kid. Just keep breathing for me, alright?”

A nurse from Peds rolled in with an Epi drip and you handed off. Your hands were shaking again. You didn’t even realize it until Jesse brushed his fingers against yours.

“You alright?”

You looked down at your scrubs. More blood. More paint. More fucking sweat.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

You were lying. Your stomach hadn’t stopped twisting since the last code. But you kept going. Because that’s what everyone here did.

You barely made it two steps out of the room before Henry came barreling up the hallway.

“Doctor!” he wheezed. “We’ve got a—uh—a patient from a hot dog eating contest! They—they passed out mid-competition. Obstructed airway, I think. They’re coding in Bay Eight.”

You ran. By the time you got there, Riley and Mel were already doing compressions. A man—mid-thirties, athletic build—was purple-faced and frothing at the mouth. His stomach was distended and there was a faint smear of ketchup across his cheek.

“Hot dog still in there?” you asked, snapping gloves on.

Riley nodded. “We tried Heimlich. Failed. We’re suctioning but it’s not clearing.”

You stepped up. “Forceps. Laryngoscope. Bag valve.”

You shoved the scope into his mouth, peered past the pink folds of tissue. There it was—a slick, greasy chunk of frankfurter lodged in the airway like a cork.

Joel appeared behind you.

“You good?” he asked.

“Hand me the damn forceps.”

He did. You fished for it—deep, too deep—and pulled it free with a sickening squelch. The hot dog thunked to the floor like something cursed. Mel jumped in with the ambu bag.

“Pulse is back,” she confirmed a moment later. “It’s weak. But it’s back.”

“Never,” Riley panted, sweat plastering her baby hairs to her face, “never fucking entering a hot dog contest. Ever.”

You were leaning against the wall now, chest heaving, and your neck throbbed where that earlier patient had scratched you. You’d forgotten about it. The pain was back now, a dull ache that pulsed with your racing heart.

Joel stood in front of you, brow furrowed. “You’re not okay.”

You looked up. “Neither are you.”

“I know,” he said. “But I’m not the one bleeding.”

You glanced down. The scratch had reopened, blood soaking the collar of your scrub top. Not much. Not dangerous. Just another wound in a long, long list.

You swallowed hard. “Just a scratch.”

Joel didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He just stood beside you as the chaos surged around you again.

Because there was no end to it. The doors would keep opening. The stretchers would keep rolling. And you’d keep going. Because no one else could.

That was the brutal, blistering truth of it.

You stood there—goggles tight on your face, blood crusted on your collar, gloves pulled on with a snap and your spine locked straight—not because you had some noble sense of duty or unshakable resolve, but because you couldn’t afford to stop. Because every time you even thought about sitting down, someone coded. Someone crashed. A kid stopped breathing. A man lost an eye. A woman sobbed over her infant’s tiny hand as the nurses tried to get a line in, whispering, “please, please, please” like a rosary.

And now, apparently, someone had blown themselves up in a fucking Porta-Potty.

"Incoming," Tommy said grimly, as the double doors from the bay burst open.

“Trauma One!” Maria barked from across the hub. “Now!”

Frank came in with the gurney, face tight, jaw locked. The smell hit first—burned fabric, scorched hair, shit. Literal human waste, clinging to the burned man’s clothes, his skin. His legs were torn up—open wounds studded with plastic and fragments of shattered porcelain from the toilet itself. One hand was charred black. His skin was red and sloughing, patches of it bubbling.

"Jesus Christ," Jesse muttered, yanking a mask up over his nose.

"Firework in a Porta-John," Tommy said as he wheeled the guy in. "M-80. Don’t ask me how."

"Someone fucking would on the Fourth," you muttered, snapping on another gown. “Where was it placed?”

“In the bowl,” Frank said. “He sat on it.”

“Of course he did.”

Joel was already across from you, snapping on a pair of surgical gloves with a sound that could slice through bone. His jaw was clenched, face unreadable.

"Vitals are trash," Mel said, sliding in with a monitor. "BP’s in the tank. O2 sat’s crashing. We need to intubate now."

You grabbed the laryngoscope while Joel prepped the tube. He was calm—dead calm—the kind of calm that comes before an explosion. His voice cut through the room with that hard, sharp edge.

“Lidocaine in. Cricoid pressure. Bag him.”

Jesse handed you the blade. You guided it into place, careful and precise. The airway was distorted but patent. Joel took over. The tube slid in on the first pass. Of course it did.

You looked down at the man’s legs, charred and littered with embedded shrapnel and what looked like wet confetti.

“Someone tell me that’s not toilet paper in his femoral wound.”

“Oh, it is,” Joel growled.

Marlene gagged.

“Flush the wounds. High-dose antibiotics. He’s septic already, or he’s about to be.”

You cleaned what you could while Kathleen handed you a syringe. “Chemical rash on his back. He landed in the tank.”

“Tank was full,” Tommy added helpfully, stepping out of the way.

“Jesus,” you muttered.

“He’s not gonna make it through the hour,” Joel said, bluntly. “Let’s get plastics and trauma surgery down here. He needs a burn unit bed but I’m betting San Antonio’s full.”

You didn’t ask how he knew that. You just nodded.

“Let’s call it in anyway.”

There wasn’t a single clear patch of this man’s skin left untouched. He looked like the Fourth of July had tried to swallow him whole and shit him back out.

You worked fast, coordinating with a speed that could only be honed by months—years—in this warzone of a hospital. Joel didn’t look at you once, not directly, but he moved around you like gravity, always one step ahead, always covering your blind side. He handled the patient with a kind of ruthless efficiency that others might’ve called cold.

You knew better. Joel wasn’t cold. Joel was focused. He didn’t waste softness on the people who didn’t deserve it. That man on the table? He might have deserved pity. He sure as fuck wasn’t getting it.

Joel tore his gloves off once the patient was stabilized enough for surgery and tossed them in the bin like they’d personally offended him. His hands shook once—barely noticeable—before he shoved them into his pockets.

“Fucking idiot,” he muttered.

You didn’t disagree.

And you didn’t stop moving.

Because the very next second, Ellie poked her head in.

“Uh, we’ve got a kid in Exam 3? Swallowed a toothpick? Like…a flag one. From a cupcake.”

You blinked. “A flag?”

“Yeah, like the American flag. From the dollar store. She’s five.”

“Is she choking?”

“No, but the family’s…a lot.”

“How a lot?”

“You’ll see.”

You left Joel in Trauma One and headed toward Exam 3. You could hear them before you opened the door.

The mother was sobbing. Loudly. Hiccuping breaths and wailing cries like she was auditioning for a soap opera. The father was yelling—at the kid, at the mother, at the air. Clearly drunk already, beer-breath sharp in the room.

“She’s gonna die,” the mom wailed. “My baby’s gonna die from a cupcake!”

“She ain’t fuckin’ dyin’,” the dad snapped, swaying slightly. “Y’all makin’ a big deal about nothin’!”

“Why did you even let her have the cupcake? You always do this—you don’t watch her!”

“She’s five, she can eat a goddamn cupcake! We all did when we were kids!”

“She swallowed a fucking flag, Kyle!”

In the corner, Grandma was sitting in a plastic chair, swaying gently and singing America the Beautiful off-key and with unnerving enthusiasm.

“O beautiful… for spacious skies…”

The child—the only reasonable person in the room—sat on the bed kicking her heels, totally unbothered.

“I feel fine,” she said. “Can I have another cupcake?”

Dina was already in the room, crouched next to the mother, talking in that soft, steady voice she used when everything was teetering on collapse.

“She’s okay,” Dina said. “She’s alert, she’s talking, she’s not choking. Let’s just take a breath, alright?”

The mom sobbed harder. You stepped in, hands in the air like you were entering a hostage negotiation.

“Hi, I’m one of the doctors. I hear we had a little cupcake situation.”

“She swallowed a flag,” the dad said proudly. “America!”

“She’s fine,” the mom cried. “But what if she’s not? What if it cuts her up on the inside?”

“Ma’am,” you said gently, approaching the little girl. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Kaylee.”

“Hi, Kaylee. Can I press on your tummy a little?”

She nodded solemnly. “You’re pretty.”

You smiled. “So are you.”

You examined her—no abdominal tenderness, no signs of perforation, vitals stable. You made a note to get an abdominal X-ray, just to make sure the damn flag wasn’t sharp enough to do damage. But this wasn’t a code. This was a circus.

Dina stood up slowly, easing the mom back onto the chair.

“She’s gonna be fine,” she said firmly. “We’re gonna monitor her and make sure everything passes okay. But you need to breathe.”

The grandma took that moment to hit a high note.

“...for purple mountain majesty…”

You looked at Dina. Dina looked at you.

“I’ll give them some water,” she muttered. “And maybe a Valium.”

You squeezed her arm gently. “You’re a national treasure.”

Dina smirked. “Someone has to be.”

You stepped out of the room and leaned your head against the cool wall for just a moment. Just a moment of silence. Of stillness. But there was no such thing today.

There were voices shouting again. Footsteps pounding. Another trauma called overhead. And Joel’s voice, snapping sharp in the distance—

“Get me a fucking gurney now or I’ll throw this guy over my shoulder myself!”

You straightened your spine. Wiped your hands. And ran toward it.

You didn’t know what room it was yet. You didn’t know who was bleeding, coding, or screaming—but the air in the ER had changed again, like it had decided to climb one more goddamn rung on the ladder to hell.

By now it had bled into noon, and that meant it wasn’t just a peak anymore. This was the full boil. No more build-up. No more lulls. Just the ER at its most unhinged, bloated with bodies and chaos and pain, stinking of chlorine and antiseptic and sunburned skin.

You rounded the corner, expecting another trauma code, expecting the worst—and instead, you got two teenage boys, one on a wheelchair, the other pushing him with the nonchalant energy of a kid who thought his own mortality was at least a decade away.

“We tried to do a Slip ’n Slide,” said the one in the chair, grinning despite the fact that his wrist was visibly fractured and his shoulder was dislocated at an angle that made Jesse wince. “It was sick.”

“We used trash bags and Dawn,” his friend said, absolutely proud of the decision. “It’s, like, eco-friendly, right?”

“Yeah,” the injured one added. “Until he slipped and hit the sprinkler head buried in the lawn. I thought his bone came out of his arm, but it was just soap and panic.”

“Yo, are you my doctor?” the boy said, eyes dropping to your badge, then slowly crawling back up to your eyes. “Because like…you’re so hot.”

You blinked. Behind you, Jesse choked on his laugh.

“Yeah,” the boy continued, winking despite his very obvious pain. “I think I just dislocated my heart.”

“Okay,” you said, stepping in. “We’re going to get your vitals, your arm back in its socket, and absolutely never talk like that to a medical professional again.”

“But if I die—”

“You won’t.”

“—will you come to my funeral?”

“I’ll resuscitate you just to kill you again.”

Jesse wheeled the kid into Exam 5, cackling.

“I love this job sometimes,” he muttered. “Teens flirting with trauma. Classic.”

You didn’t get far before Joel appeared. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

Just looked at the kid, then looked at you, and that single blink—slow and pointed—said all of it.

Joel was not the jealous type.

Joel was the territorial type. Like a wolf. Like a loaded weapon just waiting to be cocked.

“Relax,” you muttered under your breath as you passed him, shoulder brushing his. “He’s seventeen and concussed.”

Joel growled low in his throat. Actually growled. “Little bastard keeps looking at your ass, he’ll leave here with more than a cast.”

You fought back a smirk. “He’s barely out of diapers.”

Joel shot you a look like that wasn’t the goddamn point.

But then Tess was suddenly at your side, moving at speed, hair half-falling from her bun, eyes wild and voice sharp.

“Hey—Miller. You. Room 12. Right now. I don’t have time for this.”

“What is it?” you asked, already falling into step beside her.

She didn’t break stride. “Geriatric. Took too much THC lemonade. She thinks she’s ascending. I need backup before she climbs the fucking bed rails.”

You and Joel both followed.

Inside Room 12 was an elderly woman in a red-white-and-blue shawl, lying in a hospital gown with her arms stretched out like she was ready to be crucified.

“I hear the trumpets,” she whispered, eyes glassy. “They’re calling me home.”

Ellie stood nearby holding an EKG lead in one hand and what looked like an empty bottle of artisanal lemonade in the other. “Her granddaughter brought this,” she said. “She thought it was regular lemonade.”

“I thought it was an Arnold Palmer,” the woman corrected, voice dreamy. “It tasted like freedom.”

“She chugged half the bottle in the sun,” Tess explained. “Heart rate’s 140 and rising.”

Joel moved to the monitor, eyes flicking over the numbers. “BP’s shit too. You got a line?”

“Yeah,” said Mel, double-checking the drip. “But she keeps pulling at it.”

“Ma’am,” you said gently, approaching the bedside. “You’re not dying. You just had too much cannabis.”

Her eyes found Joel. They widened. “Saint Peter?”

Joel stared. “No.”

“Have you come to escort me?” she whispered, reaching out a hand.

Joel took a single step back. 

“I’m ready,” she continued, eyes glistening. “Take me into the light.”

“She needs Ativan,” Abby said, handing it off. “And maybe like…a priest.”

“Just keep her in the bed,” Tess said. “She keeps trying to crawl toward the halogen light in the ceiling.”

Joel turned away, muttering, “I fucking hate this holiday.”

You looked at him, lifting a brow. “You hate every holiday.”

“Yeah,” he said. “And this one’s the worst.”

It would’ve been funny, if the ER hadn’t chosen that exact moment to go off the rails again.

Marlene poked her head in. “You guys got a throat bleeder in Exam 2. Woman swallowed a metal bristle from a grill brush. Says she noticed halfway through her hot dog but didn’t wanna be rude.”

“What the fuck,” you muttered.

“She’s stable,” Marlene added. “But her sister’s already yelling.”

You and Joel exchanged a look. Of course.

You followed Marlene down the hall, Ellie falling in behind you with Riley trailing behind her, both clutching their tablets and trying to finish charting from the last five traumas. Henry passed you in the other direction, visibly sweating, muttering something about a broken ankle in the hallway again.

Inside Exam 2, the patient sat clutching her throat, blood on her napkin. Next to her stood a woman in her fifties with perfectly curled hair, a clipboard, and the righteous fury of a suburban mom who read one article once.

“She swallowed what?” Joel asked, arms folded.

“A grill bristle,” you said, eyeing the bleeding. “Probably from one of those wire brushes. They snap off sometimes. I read about this.”

The sister stepped in front of the bed like a lawyer at a press conference.

“This is why I tell everyone not to use metal tools when cooking. There are non-toxic options. Bamboo. Silicone. But nobody listens to me. And now this happens!”

“Ma’am,” Joel said flatly. “I don’t give a shit about your non toxic options right now. Your sister is bleeding.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused,” he said, walking past her to check the monitor. “Let the doctors work.”

You fought a smile and grabbed gloves. The woman on the bed gave you a tired, slightly woozy grin.

“I mean, it was a good hot dog,” she rasped. “Didn’t wanna ruin the vibe.”

“Next time,” you said, gently tilting her head, “ruin the vibe.”

She chuckled. Then winced.

Dina appeared at the doorway, her voice a breathless sigh. “There’s a baby on the floor in the waiting room trying to eat a Pop-It firework. No parents in sight.”

“I’m gonna commit a felony,” Joel muttered.

“I’ll hold your pager,” you said.

Everyone laughed. For half a second, it felt like the room wasn’t collapsing. Then the lights flickered. The power hiccupped. And another trauma was called over the PA.

You looked at Joel. He was already moving. And you followed him. Because no one else could.

That sentence followed you like a goddamn shadow.

It echoed in your head as you and Joel passed through the final security doors into the waiting room—a wall of sweaty, shouting, sunburned humanity. It was packed to the gills. Coughing kids, cranky geriatrics, one guy snoring against the vending machine, another pacing the floor in flip-flops and nothing else but an American flag wrapped around his waist like a towel.

The Fourth of July in Texas. The absolute worst kind of magic.

And right in the middle of all of it—by the edge of the grimy tiled floor, next to an overflowing trash can—was a baby. A real-ass baby.

Maybe nine months old. Crawling across the fucking floor with a soggy diaper and an open Pop-It firework gripped in his drool-slick hand like it was a holy relic.

“God damn it,” Joel muttered, and you were already moving.

You scooped the baby up before he could slam the firework into the floor. He shrieked in protest, flailed in your arms, and then—somehow—managed to sneeze directly into your mouth.

You froze.

“Did he just—?”

“He fucking did,” Joel confirmed.

Your jaw clenched.

Joel took the firework from the kid’s hand and hurled it into the nearest trash bin like it had personally offended him. Then he looked around the room with all the tenderness of a hunting dog tracking a wounded deer.

“Whose kid is this?!” he bellowed.

Silence. No one moved. No one looked up.

“I said—whose fucking kid?!”

You rocked the baby gently on your hip. “He doesn’t have a wristband. He’s not registered.”

Joel scanned the crowd, eyes narrowing. “We’re calling CPS.”

“I’ll call 'em,” Dina said, appearing from nowhere, eyes exhausted and jaw tight. “Jesus fucking Christ. This is the third abandoned kid today. Do people think this is a goddamn daycare?”

“Apparently,” Joel growled.

The baby cooed in your arms and drooled on your scrub top.

You sighed. “Okay. This one’s mine now. I’ll call him July.”

Joel looked at the baby. The baby blinked at him, completely unbothered.

Joel didn’t smile. But you could tell he wanted to. He just touched the baby's foot making him giggle.

Then the screaming started. Not from the baby. From the ambulance bay.

You both turned just in time to see Tommy and Frank wheel in a gurney that looked…wrong. The patient wasn’t lying flat. She was…angled? Propped up in some kind of twisted plastic hellscape. And she was howling.

“I’m stuck!” she screeched. “I cannot feel my ass!”

“She got melted into the chair,” Frank explained as they wheeled her past the desk. “Aluminum frame, plastic seat. Left it out in the sun too long. She sat down and… boom. Cheeks fused.”

“She tried to stand up and the chair came with her,” Tommy added, still holding the IV bag. “Had to cut the lawn hose to fit her through the door.”

You blinked. Marlene blinked. Joel’s eye twitched.

“Get her into Procedure Three,” Maria barked from behind the main hub. “And prep a burn tray. This is gonna be a surgical extraction.”

You followed the gurney in, July passed off to Dina, as Joel grabbed the trauma shears. Dina disappeared down the hall to hand the baby off to Social Work. Jesse, Tess, and Riley were already in the room. Henry stood against the wall, pale as a sheet, staring at the patient like she was some rare museum exhibit.

“Don’t just stand there,” Joel snapped at him. “You’ve seen an ass before.”

“Not like this,” Henry whispered.

The patient was red in the face, gripping the sides of the chair like it was a ride at an amusement park. 

“She’s got second-degree burns on the posterior,” Mel said, pulling on gloves. “We’re gonna have to cut the chair off in sections.”

“She’s got third-degree pride damage,” Abby muttered.

“I heard that!” the woman yelled.

“We’ll get you out, ma’am,” Tess said, rolling up her sleeves. “But you need to hold still. If you twist, you’ll rip skin.”

“I’ve been twisted since brunch,” the woman moaned. “Do it fast!”

You stepped in with trauma scissors and started cutting the straps of her sundress where it had fused to the chair legs. Joel knelt at the base, prying at melted plastic.

“Jesse, saline. And get me lidocaine. Abby—scalpel. Riley—monitor. Now.”

They moved. You moved. The chair creaked as Joel wedged the blunt scissors into the side and began to snip.

“You’re gonna feel pressure,” you warned.

“I feel humiliation!” the woman shouted.

The room was chaos. Screams. Grunts. Sweat. Abby nearly slipped in a puddle of saline. Jesse started humming The Star Spangled Banner under his breath like it was going to save his soul.

“Pressure coming,” Joel warned.

“Now,” you said. “Mel—on the back panel.”

One final snap—and the chair split. The woman yelped. Joel caught her before she could slide off the gurney. Burns covered the backs of her thighs and ass. Angry red welts. Plastic still clinging to the skin.

“Get burn cream,” Joel barked. “And wrap it. We’ll get plastics to consult. If this gets infected—”

“It won’t,” you said quickly. “We won’t let it.”

The woman sniffled. “Do I… still have an ass?”

You nodded solemnly. “It’s just less optimistic now.”

Joel gave you a look. But it was almost—almost—amused.

Jesse gently covered her with a sheet. “You’ll be fine, ma’am. But maybe next time, check the chair temperature before you park it.”

“Fuck you,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

Tess wiped her forehead. “Somebody better bring me a margarita after this.”

“I got a jug of hospital juice,” Riley offered.

“Go to hell.”

Ellie leaned in through the curtain, tablet clutched in one hand. “Someone just walked in with a buncha sparklers taped to their chest.”

You stared. She stared. You sighed. Then reached for your stethoscope.

You didn’t even get the damn thing around your neck before it happened. The world cracked in half.

A boom, deep and cavernous, roared through the hospital like a goddamn earthquake. The lights flickered. The floor shook. Somewhere far off, car alarms screamed to life. You had just turned to Joel, mouth open to ask what the fuck was that, when the second explosion hit.

It was louder. Closer.

You staggered, caught the edge of the stretcher to steady yourself. From down the hall came the sound of shattering glass. An IV pole tipped, clattered to the floor. Somewhere, someone screamed. The lights dimmed, buzzed, then held steady, flickering like they were considering going out entirely.

Joel was already moving. You didn’t even see him react—just felt it. A hand on your arm. Hard. Gripping. Yanking you in, fast.

He pulled you to him, one arm curling instinctively around your back, his chest flush to yours as the wall behind you both trembled under the blast’s echo.

You could feel his heart racing through his scrubs. His breath was sharp, tight, furious.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was low and sharp, a breath away from a growl.

“No,” you panted. “I’m—what the fuck just happened?”

Across the ER, controlled chaos exploded.

Maria’s voice bellowed from the central hub, clear and commanding, her voice slicing through the panic. “Mass casualty protocol! All trauma bays cleared now. Abby, Mel, start staging the clean beds! Riley, Henry, grab gurneys and start lining the main hallway. Jesse, Marlene, alert radiology and prep the portable X-ray machines—now!”

Joel looked out the window. Smoke. Billowing, black smoke rising from the supermarket lot across the street. People running. Screaming.

“Oh, fuck me,” Kathleen said from the nurse’s desk, eyes wide. “It’s the firework truck.”

“The illegal one,” Marlene added, her voice flat with horror. “That vendor with the fucking tent full of black market shit—it’s gone.”

“Exploded,” said Ellie, appearing at your side, breathless and pale. “It just—exploded. Twice. We felt it inside.”

You looked toward the windows. The supermarket parking lot was chaos. Fireworks still going off mid-air—rockets bursting into reds and greens like it was New Year’s instead of noon. People were running toward the hospital, some limping, some screaming.

A kid was carried by a man soaked in blood.

A woman fell into the bushes near the entrance.

The hospital doors hadn’t even fully opened before Bill was there, already barking into his radio, hand on his hip, stance like a fucking soldier. “We’ve got multiple casualties inbound. Lock this place down, route ‘em to emergency access. Tell APD we need crowd control now. No civilians inside the ER.”

“Tell Fire they’re still igniting,” Tommy shouted as he hauled a backboard off a gurney. “Shit’s not out yet. We’re gonna have more.”

Maria turned to you and Joel. “You two. Trauma Three. First waves’ll be here in thirty seconds.”

The doors burst open again. Sirens now. So many sirens.

Then they came.

The first patient—dragged in by two strangers, clothes still smoking—was screaming, half his face red and blistering, the skin peeling off his arm like plastic wrap. “It was in my goddamn truck!” he yelled. “I told him not to park it next to the propane—”

“Vitals tanking,” Mel called, rushing up with the monitor. “BP 84 over 40!”

“Get fluids. We’re intubating now,” Joel barked. “You—” he pointed at Henry, who flinched— “cut that shirt off and watch for chest expansion.”

“I’ve got an O2 mask!” Ellie shouted, barreling in behind him.

Abby was already trying to start a line, fumbling.

“Abby—center that angle or you’re gonna blow it,” Joel snapped. “Get out of the way. I’ll do it.”

You slipped in with the burn kit, pushing the cart to the side of the bed. “We need lidocaine, silvadene, morphine. He’s gonna crash.”

Second patient came in a minute later.

Woman. Late twenties. Not screaming.

Because she couldn’t breathe.

A rocket had shot straight through the windshield of her car. Glass shredded her chest. One rib cracked. The pressure had collapsed her lung.

“She’s hypoxic,” Jesse called, wheeling her into Trauma Two. “Sat’s in the fifties. Trachea’s shifting. We’ve got a tension pneumo.”

“I’m needling her now!” you said, already gloved up.

Joel moved to your side without hesitation.

“Three fingers below the clavicle. Do it fast or she’s gone,” he said, voice calm, commanding. Like the world wasn’t on fire.

You pierced the chest wall with the needle, felt the rush of air, watched her chest rise.

“She’s stabilizing,” Riley said, breath catching.

Another one.

A child.

Carried in by a stranger, his leg soaked in blood, a metal shard sticking out just above the knee. Screaming. Wailing.

“Shrapnel,” Marlene said. “Straight from the explosion.”

Dina rushed in behind them, voice shaking. “Mom’s not with him. Said she ran off looking for his little brother—he’s alone.”

You pushed the adult crash cart aside, swapping in peds trauma.

“Stay with me, kiddo,” you whispered, eyes locking with his. “You’re not alone anymore.”

Joel appeared beside you, hands already working to stabilize the limb. “Get that pressure dressing on. Marlene—lidocaine local. I’m not cutting metal until he’s numb.”

“Roger that.”

“We can’t pull it here,” you said. “Not without imaging. We don’t know what it’s resting against.”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “Then we work around it. Until radiology’s ready.”

The ER was vibrating with sound. The doors slammed open again, and Frank came in pushing another gurney.

“Burns and lacerations,” he said. “Lost a shoe, still has a firework tube in his hand.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Tess muttered, meeting him at the door with a splint and gauze. “Get me a tray. And a scalpel. I think we’re cutting around this one.”

“Where’s Ortho?” Maria asked, hands on her hips. “Someone page Ortho, I want consults in fifteen minutes or I’m dragging them down here myself!”

“Dr. Gail is in surgery!” Riley shouted back. “I’ll grab second call!”

Kathleen blew past the hub with four gurneys trailing behind her like a train, three med techs jogging to keep up. Her face was stone.

“Ten more ambulances on the way,” she called. “The parking lot’s a war zone.They’re staging by triage. We need everyone outside of Trauma Hall to prep overflow.”

You grabbed a portable monitor and a trauma checklist, snapped at Henry to follow.

He hesitated.

Joel barked—“Go.”

Henry went.

You didn’t see where Joel ended up for the next ten minutes. You were too busy. You were stitching, packing wounds, answering rapid-fire questions from Ellie, who was practically vibrating from adrenaline. You passed Jesse in the hallway, sweat pouring down his face, three soaked gowns already in the trash. You heard Abby shouting for a bolus in Room Seven, saw Mel carrying a tray of wrapped scalpels like her life depended on it.

And then—

Joel was beside you again.

You didn’t know how long it had been.

His eyes scanned you fast, checking every inch of you in a breathless beat.

“You okay?”

You nodded.

“You?”

He didn’t answer.

But his fingers brushed your hand for just a second. Just long enough to say still here.

And then more patients poured in.

And you both ran toward it.

There wasn’t even time to think about how long it had been since you’d eaten, or went to the bathroom, or even blinked without your eyeballs stinging. The air in the ER had thickened—hot, metallic, sour with sweat and sterilized burn dressings. Every inch of your black scrubs was soaked in blood, saline, and god knew what else. You couldn’t tell where your pulse stopped and the noise around you began.

There was no clock anymore. Just waves of patients. Gurneys rolling in, IV poles clattering against corners, bloody towels slapping the linoleum. You moved through it like muscle memory—stitching, bagging, ordering scans, barking instructions to interns who hadn’t even hit their first bowel movement on the job.

Joel was a few paces ahead, pulling a C-collar from a wall mount, jaw tight as iron, barking over his shoulder to Riley, who was jogging to keep up with a trauma sheet.

“Have the trauma room ready before I get there, or I’m working on this guy on the floor. Got it?”

“Got it, Dr. Miller,” she said breathlessly, already sprinting down the hall.

You saw Henry leaning into a hallway crash cart, face pale and shiny. He’d just finished assisting with a child whose femur had shattered clean through the skin. His gloved hands were still shaking, and you wanted to say something—something decent—but the next gurney was already coming in, and someone was shouting for an airway and suction, and the moment was gone.

Then the doors opened again.

You heard the change in the room before you saw who it was.

There was a shift—like the sound dropped an octave. Like gravity changed hands.

A firefighter came in.

He wasn’t screaming.

He wasn’t saying anything.

That was worse.

Frank was wheeling him, and the medic at his side looked fucking wrecked.

“Flash burns,” Frank shouted. “Second and third degree, neck down to his hip. Helmet took most of the blast. He was on top of the truck when it popped the second time.”

“Vitals?” Joel asked, already snapping on gloves.

“Dropping. BP’s shit, O2 sat’s low 90s. He needs fluids, airway’s tightening.”

The man’s skin was cracked, dark, curled. Parts of it bubbled, weeping plasma.

“Get him to Trauma One,” Joel barked. “You—” He pointed to Ellie, who was two steps away. “Get Respiratory down here right now.”

“He’s trying to talk,” you said, leaning in.

You crouched beside the gurney as Frank slowed it beside the trauma bay. The firefighter’s lips were blistered. His voice was gravel.

“My…my wife’s here…”

“We’ll find her,” you said. “But you need to stay with us, alright? You’re at Austin General. You’re safe.”

He blinked slowly. “It hurts.”

“I know. I know it does.”

“Push fentanyl, IV,” Joel said, already cutting away what was left of the turnout gear. The skin underneath peeled off with the fabric.

“Motherfucker,” he growled, tossing the gauze aside. “This is third-degree over at least thirty percent. Get the burn team on standby.”

Tess appeared at your side with two nurses and a trauma surgeon. “Ortho’s full upstairs. Trauma Two is open but we’ve got a bleeding scalp lac in there. I’ll switch ‘em if we stabilize him in the next ten.”

You nodded. “I’ll start cooling compresses now.”

You grabbed a silver-coated burn dressing, opened it, and started gently laying it over the exposed tissue. The firefighter didn’t even flinch.

That was the worst part.

The not flinching.

Then came the second shift in the air. The kind you only felt a few times a year.

The doors opened again.

A uniform came through.

Police.

Dragging another.

The cop on the gurney was groaning, blood pouring from a shoulder wound, his vest soaked through, cheek torn open. One of his boots was missing. There was soot on his face.

Joel looked up. Groaned. Loudly.

“Fucking great,” he muttered, wiping his hands on a towel. “Just what we fucking need.”

You barely caught your laugh before it escaped. It wasn’t funny. But it was also so goddamn Joel.

Because whenever a cop rolled through the trauma bay, it meant one thing, the rest of the department was about to show up.

And they’d be in the ER. Hovering. Pacing. Armed.

It turned your trauma bay into a political minefield.

And Joel? Joel didn’t play that game.

“Officer was helping crowd control during the blast,” Tommy reported, voice clipped, wheeling the officer in beside Tess. “Got hit with some shrapnel and then trampled.”

“Vitals?” Joel asked, walking over.

“Stable. But barely. Pressure’s borderline. Laceration on the scalp, and that shoulder’s fucked.”

The officer groaned. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Joel said. “You’ve got a puncture wound half an inch from your subclavian artery, and you’re actively bleeding onto my floor. Shut up and let me work.”

You stepped in behind him, grabbing gauze, gloves already on. “Do you want me to start a second line?”

“Yes. Left AC. Jesse—clamp this.”

“I’m clamping, I’m clamping,” Jesse muttered, hands bloody.

And right on cue, the cavalry came.

Five more officers entered the ER like they owned the place, guns holstered, expressions hard. They didn’t say a word, just hovered outside Trauma Three like sentries.

Dina appeared at your side with an exhausted expression. “I’m going to need a Xanax just from looking at this testosterone.”

“They’re gonna breathe down our necks until this guy’s transferred upstairs,” you muttered, snapping the catheter into place.

Joel didn’t even look up.

“Hey,” he barked, without turning. “One of you pacing jackasses wanna be useful? Go get your boy’s blood type from dispatch and stop fucking crowding my hallway.”

A few of them stiffened.

One opened his mouth.

Joel glared.

The cop closed it again.

Marlene slid in beside you with an extra tray. “You want me to log this guy’s injury for the report?”

“Document it for surgical,” you said. “He’s not going to need an incident report if he bleeds out on the floor.”

“I heard that,” the officer mumbled.

Joel leaned over him. “Good. Maybe you’ll listen better now.”

And then, somehow, like some cruel joke from above, a sixth cop walked in carrying a teenage girl with a bruised face.

“Hit by a rocket while filming a TikTok,” he said. “She’s got glass in her cheek and maybe a concussion.”

Joel blinked.

“Riley. That one’s yours,” he said.

“Me? I—I've never done this before—”

“You’ve got me,” Joel barked. “She’s stable. Triage her. I’ll double-check your assessment before discharge.”

You caught his eye.

You didn’t say anything.

You didn’t have to.

You could see it in him—the storm building behind his ribs. The fire that never quite went out. Joel wasn’t just in charge. He was containing the whole fucking hospital with the force of his will.

And still—when his eyes met yours, something shifted.

His jaw relaxed. Just a fraction.

You wiped sweat off your brow and nodded.

He didn’t nod. He just looked at you.

You pressed your glove to the officer’s wound and let yourself feel his gaze for one more second before the chaos swallowed you whole again.

It was four-thirty p.m. now. Or close to it.

The firework truck disaster had slowed—not ended, not resolved, but dulled just enough that you could hear your own breathing again. Maybe even someone else's. EMS was still ferrying in stragglers from the blast radius, but the heavy flow was stemmed. Controlled. Stitched and stapled back into some semblance of order by a crew of exhausted, bloodstained healthcare workers who hadn’t took a break since sunrise.

The ER was open again. Technically.

The triage desk was back on, the phones buzzing, the automatic doors kissing open with every new patient. The city hadn’t paused just because a truck of illegal fireworks blew up across the street. This was Austin. People still choked on hot dogs, burned their hands on grills, took edibles they didn’t understand and panic-texted their exes from Exam room 2.

And every. Single. Fucking. Room was full.

Overflow was full.

Trauma bays were full.

Peds, Ortho, Neuro, Med-Surg, Hall Beds 1 through 5, and the goddamn family bereavement room were full.

You were treading water, heart beating in your ears, sweat soaking your scrubs. There were two paper cups of coffee you hadn’t finished and three patients you hadn’t followed up on yet. Ellie was at the nurse’s station reviewing a chart with one hand and eating a banana with the other, eyes glassy from too much input. Riley had just returned from the stairwell, where she admitted to crying for two minutes, washing her face, and then saying I can do hard things.

That was you during your first year too. 

You hadn’t even taken your gloves off for the last hour. At some point, they just fused to your skin.

But then it happened.

The way it always does.

Sudden.

Loud.

Violent.

The radio crackled in from EMS. The voice was fast, panicked.

“Male, mid-thirties, penetrating chest trauma, left thoracic cavity—multiple stab wounds—no pulse for the last thirty seconds. We’re two minutes out—we’re performing compressions en route but he’s—he’s tanking.”

There was silence for one breath.

Just one.

Then Joel’s voice, low and lethal from the trauma bay, “Clear Trauma One. Now.”

You dropped the file in your hands onto the desk.

Tore off your gloves.

And you ran.

By the time you got to Trauma One, Joel was already there—mask on, arms scrubbed to the elbow, gown halfway tied. His jaw was clenched, eyes scanning the crash cart like he was inventorying a fucking battlefield. The room smelled like sweat and sterile burn cream, and still, something in the air cracked open, the second you stepped in.

Not panic. Not fear.

Something heavier.

Something that whispered this one’s gonna be different.

“Get them all in here,” Joel snapped to Marlene, who stood at the door. “Everyone. Jesse, Abby, Mel, Riley, Henry. Ellie too.”

“They’re not all on rotation for—”

“I don’t give a fuck,” he barked. “They want to work in the field? They want to become doctors? They watch. They help. They need to see this.”

You stepped in beside him, already pulling on a new pair of gloves. “Is it…?”

Joel looked at you. Really looked.

And when he nodded, your pulse jumped.

“Emergency thoracotomy,” he said. “If he arrests, we crack the chest.”

Your heart stuttered.

This was it.

This was the thing you’d been obsessing over for months—talking Joel’s ear off about it over half-empty glasses of whiskey at his kitchen counter, watching old procedural videos while curled up next to him in bed, asking him over and over what was it like the first time you did one? Did it work? Did it feel real? He never answered in full. He just grunted, or said “bloody,” or told you to go the fuck to sleep while he digs his head back into your warm neck.

And now it was happening.

And he was here.

And you were ready.

The doors burst open.

The paramedics wheeled him in at a dead sprint. Literally. Because the man on the gurney was dead.

Pulseless.

Agonal.

The first medic was shouting, “We lost him for thirty—make that forty seconds now. GSW to the chest, left thorax, suspect a knife. Maybe a piece of pipe. Whatever it was—punched straight through.”

Joel was already at the bedside, yanking off the sheet.

You followed without needing to be asked.

“Jesse, get vitals on monitor. Abby, you’re on line. Riley, grab the thoracotomy tray. Henry—”

Henry paled. “Yeah?”

“Don’t fucking faint again.”

“I won’t.”

“You faint, I leave you there.”

He nodded. Swallowed. Backed up.

The man’s skin was waxy. Blue around the lips. The gaping chest wound glistened and bubbled with thick, frothy blood—the worst kind. Pulmonary. Wet. Final.

“We’re cracking,” Joel said to the room. “Now. He’s not coming back with compressions. We open.”

Ellie blinked. “You mean like—like open open?”

“Like ribs-on-display open,” Joel snapped. “Don’t move unless you want your shoes soaked.”

And then—Joel turned to you.

Paused.

Looked at you with that sharp, knowing edge that said this is the moment you've been waiting for.

“Do it,” he said.

You blinked. “Me?”

“You’ve been begging for this for six fucking months. Talking my ear off. You want it—take it.”

The room froze.

Everyone stared at you.

“No pressure,” Mel whispered. “Just someone’s life on the line.”

You didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

You stepped forward, and you cracked his fucking chest.

Joel guided, hands over yours, voice low but never soft. “Midline. Left thoracotomy. Rib spreader. Go now.”

Riley handed it over with trembling hands. Abby dropped suction tubing on the floor and didn’t even pick it up.

You made the incision.

Deep.

Fast.

Confident.

The blood poured.

Joel caught it.

Jesse cursed under his breath. Ellie made a sound like she was swallowing vomit. Henry straight-up whimpered.

You cut through the muscle.

Joel barked again. “Keep going. Don’t stop until you see the goddamn heart.”

You spread the ribs. The crack was wet and obscene and louder than you expected.

It wasn’t like TV.

It was real.

Inside, the left lung was collapsed, the pericardium filling with blood.

You could see the heart.

And it was still.

Joel didn’t say anything.

You didn’t need him to.

You reached in.

Your gloved hand slid into the cavity like a blade. Warm. Tight. Full of potential.

And you found it.

The heart.

“Massage it,” Joel said. “Rhythm. Controlled. You’ve got this.”

You started compressions—internal. Thumb and fingers. Slow, then faster.

Riley was in the corner, trying to stand tall. 

Abby whispered something that sounded like a prayer.

Mel had gone quiet, which was somehow worse.

Henry was gripping the counter, white-knuckled.

Jesse stood frozen until Joel barked at him to bag the fucking patient.

And you—you were the one keeping the man alive.

For ten seconds.

Then twenty.

Then thirty.

Then—

Beep.

Faint.

Then stronger.

Joel leaned over the monitor.

“Sinus rhythm,” he said, eyes flicking to you. “Goddamn. You got him back.”

A gasp filled the room.

Abby nearly dropped her syringe.

Mel exhaled like she hadn’t breathed in minutes.

Jesse muttered “holy shit.”

Ellie said, “you just—he was dead. And now he’s not.”

Joel looked at you.

Just for a second.

And his face didn’t soften.

Not quite.

But his jaw relaxed. His eyes cooled.

“Good work,” he said, voice like gravel. “Now close him up.”

You did.

You fucking did.

You closed him. The room moved around you—cleaning, charting, reeling—but you stayed still. Hands deep in blood. Covered in it. Gowned and soaked and shaking just a little.

Joel stepped up beside you.

“Looks good,” he said.

You turned.

“Did I do it right?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

He just nodded once.

A single, hard nod that meant more than words ever could.

Everyone else eventually left. One by one. Except Joel.

When it was just the two of you, he reached out and wiped a streak of blood from your cheek with his gloved thumb.

“You’re disgusting,” he said.

You grinned, breathless. “So are you.”

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.”

He rolled his eyes.

But then, under his breath, like it wasn’t meant for anyone else,

“Proud of you.”

You almost missed it.

But you didn’t.

You never did.

Because it was Fourth of July, and the world outside was still burning.

But inside this room, for just one breathless moment—

You had brought someone back to life.

And Joel fucking Miller had watched you do it.

And he wasn’t going to forget it.

Joel Miller didn’t say things twice. If he was proud of you, that meant something. That meant everything.

You peeled off your gloves and stepped out of Trauma One with the sting of adrenaline still buzzing under your skin. Your hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the absolute goddamn power of that moment. You’d cracked a chest. You.

And Joel let you. Trusted you.

That kind of trust didn’t come easy from a man like him.

It was 5:00 p.m.

One hour left.

You told yourself you’d make it. You could do another hour. You’d get through whatever the Fourth of July still had left to vomit into your ER. You’d go home, peel off your scrubs, crawl into Joel’s bed, and maybe—maybe—you’d even get to fall asleep with your face buried in his neck before another fucking Code Blue ripped through your subconscious.

You turned the corner and nearly ran into Kathleen, who stood like a weathered pillar of war-torn exhaustion at the nurse’s station. Her face was flushed, arms crossed, brows pulled into a flat, unimpressed line.

“There’s a call for you,” she said. “Line two. Marlene has it.”

You blinked. “Someone called me?”

Kathleen didn’t blink. “Apparently it’s urgent.”

You stared.

She didn’t explain.

Marlene handed you the receiver with the grace of someone physically holding back a cackle.

You pressed it to your ear. “This is—”

“Thank fuck.”

Owen’s voice. Too loud. Too fast.

“Owen?”

“Hey. Yeah. Hi. Listen—I need a huge favor. Massive. I’ll owe you a kidney or three consults, I don’t care, just—please, can you cover the first three hours of my shift?”

You glanced at the clock.

5:01 p.m.

“I’ve been here since five this morning.”

“I know. I know. You’re a goddamn hero. Literally Jesus in black scrubs. Just—three hours. Please. Just until nine. I’ll come in at nine. Nine sharp. Not even a minute late.”

“Why?”

There was a pause.

And then, “I wanna have dinner with Mel.”

You inhaled slowly.

“Seriously?”

“I made a reservation,” Owen said, like that was somehow a valid excuse. “At the fancy new restaurant, the one Joel took you to. I bought cologne. I haven’t eaten real food in two weeks.”

You turned to look behind you.

Abby was standing by the vitals board, arms crossed, trying not to look like she was listening.

But she was.

And her face had gone tight in that way you recognized—the jaw-clench of someone pretending they don’t care.

Shit.

“Owen,” you said carefully. “This is your shift. You’re scheduled. You’re—”

“I’ll trade you! Anything. I’ll do your whole weekend. I’ll take all your psych evals for a month.”

“That’s a bold offer.”

“I’ll clean the vomit buckets in the peds trauma room!”

“You should already be doing that.”

“I will now.”

You sighed. Rubbed your forehead. Glanced at Abby again. She was now fake-charting on a blank clipboard. Poorly.

You shouldn’t do it.

You knew you shouldn’t.

But then Marlene handed you a new chart—incoming trauma. Level 1. ETA five minutes.

“Goddammit,” you muttered. “Fine. Three hours. But you owe me your soul.”

Owen cheered on the other end.

You hung up and looked over at Abby.

She didn’t look up.

You stepped closer. “Hey.”

“I’m fine,” she said. Immediately. Too quickly. “Totally fine. Not my business. Not even my night. Just…you know. Cool. Love that for them.”

“Abby.”

“I said I’m fine.” She slammed the clipboard on the desk and walked off, her ears visibly red.

You sighed again.

Before you could process any of it, a stretcher screamed into the trauma bay.

Tommy was at the head, barking orders, and Frank had blood on his shirt again—big surprise.

Teenager. Male. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Slumped over. Screaming.

“Lawnmower accident,” Frank snapped, pushing hard. “Fucking dad didn’t check his blade height—hit a rock, launched it like a missile.”

“Penetrating orbital trauma,” Tommy added. “It hit the kid in the eye. He’s bleeding like hell. Not responsive.”

Jesse was already snapping gloves on beside you. “Tell me that rock didn’t puncture the fucking globe.”

You moved to the side of the bed as the kid’s head rolled. His left eye—Jesus fuck—his left eye was gone. Or at least it looked like it. Crushed inward, blood and viscous fluid pouring down his cheek.

Riley gagged.

Mel paled.

Abby reappeared beside you, full fury now replaced by full panic.

“What the fuck,” she muttered. “People should need a fucking license to own a lawn.”

“Vitals?” Joel’s voice cut through the trauma room as he entered, already gloved, already dark-eyed and tense.

“BP dropping,” Jesse said. “Heart rate climbing. He’s crashing.”

“Jesse, get a line,” Joel barked. “You—” he pointed at you. “Ocular tray, now. I want that eye covered. He so much as twitches and the optic nerve’s gonna shear.”

You grabbed the tray from Riley’s shaking hands. “We’re sedating?”

“If I don’t, he’s gonna start fucking thrashing and drive that rock deeper into his skull.”

The father—still in a goddamn polo shirt and sandals—stood at the door, blood on his arms, face pale.

“I just wanted to mow the yard before the guests came,” he kept whispering. “We were gonna grill—he was helping—I just—”

“Sir,” Joel said coldly, without turning, “if you don’t shut up, I’m going to have you dragged back into the waiting room.”

The dad shut up.

You placed the rigid eye shield over the wound. Blood pooled around the edges. It was already soaking the pillow. The kid groaned, twitching.

“Don’t move,” Joel growled. “Do not fucking move.”

“He’s coding,” Mel snapped. “BP’s bottoming out—seventy over thirty.”

“We need a cric tray ready,” Jesse said. “I can’t get the O2 past the swelling.”

You were moving, hands slick, adrenaline high and sharp.

Joel grabbed the ultrasound probe. “FAST scan. I want to rule out abdominal trauma while we stabilize the head. If that rock skipped through—”

“It didn’t,” Tommy said grimly. “We found the fucking thing in the driveway. Looks like a meteor.”

Joel’s hands moved fast. Surgical. Terrifying.

You mirrored him. Fast. Exact. No room for error.

This wasn’t like the thoracotomy. This was slower. Messier. No clean incisions here. Just trauma. Raw and violent. The kind that steals things. Childhood. Sight. Fucking Fourth of July barbecues.

Abby pressed gauze to the kid’s neck. “He’s tachycardic. We need to intubate.”

“I’ll do it,” Joel said, snapping his fingers. “Get the tube. Bag him. Suction ready.”

“You want me on airway?” you asked, stepping in.

He looked at you. That same look from earlier.

“I trust you.” he said.

So you did it.

You took the tube. You got the line. You shoved the fucking endotracheal tube into a kid who just lost his eye and might still lose his life. You did it because you had to. Because no one else could.

And because Joel trusted you.

You bagged until the O2 sats climbed back out of hell.

Mel ran labs.

Riley got a chest film.

Abby called Ophthalmology.

Jesse finally got the dad escorted to the waiting room by Bill before Joel could murder him with his stare alone.

Joel stood at the foot of the gurney, arms folded, eyes dark and burning.

“He’s stable,” Jesse said, breathless.

“For now,” Joel muttered. “Get imaging. Stat.”

You leaned over the bed, wiped some of the blood from the kid’s temple.

And then you felt Joel behind you.

Close. Not touching. Just there.

“You did good,” he said, low, just for you. “Again.”

You turned slightly, eyes meeting his.

“You keep saying that,” you murmured.

“That’s because it keeps being true.”

And then he was gone.

The kid was wheeled to CT.

You turned to the trauma team, who were collapsing one by one against the wall, soaked in blood and sweat and the sheer weight of almost.

Ellie looked ready to cry. Riley was holding a juice box. Jesse was on his second bottle of water and muttering something about moving to Canada. Abby was pacing, muttering Owen’s name under her breath.

And you?

You checked the clock.

5:43 p.m.

You still had two hours and seventeen minutes left in the shift you weren’tsupposed to work.

And already, it felt like a whole new fucking war had begun.

You cracked your neck. Wiped your forehead. Took a deep breath. And turned toward the doors.

Another stretcher was rolling in. Because of course it was.

Happy Fucking Fourth of July.

It was six when the first wave of soldiers walked off the battlefield.

The day shift clocked out like they were fleeing a warzone—scrubs stained, hair plastered to their foreheads, eyes too wide and hollow to belong to people under thirty. The fluorescent lights had aged them by decades. Some had blood on their shoes. Some had blood in their hair. Some weren’t sure whose blood it was.

Kathleen passed by the desk with her bag over her shoulder, muttering, “If they page me before five tomorrow, I’ll set this place on fire.”

Jesse was limping, dragging one foot behind him like a wounded animal, sipping a smoothie someone handed him two hours ago that had fully liquified into soup. He waved weakly in your direction, eyes dead. "Don't let anyone else swallow a flag," he said. "Just… don’t."

Ellie was practically vibrating on her way out, holding a foil-wrapped bundle that had been a brownie Dina was eyeing earlier. “I’m gonna eat this and then sleep for six days,” she told Riley, who was chewing on ice like it was a coping strategy.

Dina had her phone pressed to her ear, her free hand gesturing wildly as she talked to some poor soul on the other end. “No, I can’t go out tonight, I literally watched a baby eat gunpowder. Yes, literal gunpowder. Like from a firework. I don’t care if it’s rooftop karaoke, I’m not fucking going.”

Mel, fresh scrubs on now but still blotchy from everything, lingered at the front with her bag slung low and her hair half-down. She spotted Dina and beamed like the sun hadn’t just tried to kill everyone inside the ER.

“I’m serious,” Mel gushed, linking her arm with Dina’s as they walked. “Owen made reservations. He was so sweet. I think he even bought a new shirt. He didn’t say it, but it wasn’t wrinkled, so that has to mean something.”

Dina snorted. “Wow. A man wearing a clean shirt. You better marry him.”

You weren’t listening on purpose.

You just…couldn’t not hear it.

Because Abby was two steps behind them, standing by the elevator bank, still in her half-zipped hoodie and Crocs, staring at the tiled floor like she could melt through it.

You stood near her.

Close but not close.

She noticed you before you said anything.

“I’m not gonna cry,” she said flatly. “So don’t say something nice.”

You shrugged. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.”

She paused.

Then, quietly, “Did you know?”

You didn’t answer. Because you had. Of course you had. The way Owen had started standing closer to Mel. The way he’d brushed Abby off the past two weeks with half-assed excuses.

“I’m not mad at her,” she said, still staring forward. “I mean…maybe I am. But it’s not like she knew.”

You leaned next to her against the wall. “You don’t have to be fine.”

“I know.”

“I’m not fine either.”

She nodded.

And that was enough.

The elevator dinged.

She got in.

Didn’t look back.

You stayed in the hallway for a beat longer, the hum of overhead lights buzzing in your teeth. Your eyes were dry and scratchy. Your hands smelled like latex. There was blood on the cuff of your sleeve again, and you didn’t even remember who it belonged to.

The night shift was officially here now.

Soon the night staff began pooling into the ER.

They shuffled in with the kind of dead-eyed resignation of people who knew exactly what they were walking into. They looked at you with curiosity, confusion.

“You're still here,” one said.

You just nodded. “Still am.”

The ER had quieted in the way a battlefield does after the airstrikes stop—still full of smoke, rubble, and bodies, just… quieter. The screams were fewer. The alarms less frequent. But the stench of bleach and burnt flesh still clung to the walls.

You were working a bay in the corner, checking on a man who’d driven straight into a ditch after swerving to avoid a firework that had launched into the road.

“Wasn’t even my firework,” he mumbled, a gash splitting across his temple, blood matting his hair. “Some asshole two blocks over. Guess they didn’t like my truck.”

You were scanning for signs of concussion, clicking the penlight, asking about nausea, when he squinted at you.

“You’re cute,” he slurred. “Like real cute. Do you—uh—do you always look this good when you save lives?”

You didn’t answer.

He tried again.

“You got a boyfriend?”

You snapped the light off and looked him dead in the eye.

“I’ve got a scalpel,” you said.

He laughed.

You didn’t.

Across the ER, you heard a sharp voice bark, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Your heart skipped.

Joel.

He was back.

Fully suited in trauma gear again, hair still damp with sweat, scrub top stretched over tense muscle. His eyes were already narrowed, fixed on you.

You didn’t even see him walk over—he was just suddenly there, all heat and static and restrained violence. He looked down at the chart in your hand, then up at your face, then over at the patient who still hadn’t stopped smiling.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Joel said, voice low and lethal.

“I’m working,” you said, frowning. “Owen called and asked me to cover—”

“Owen’s a fucking idiot,” Joel snapped. “This isn’t your shift.”

“He begged. He wanted to—”

“See Mel. Yeah, I fucking heard.”

Joel looked down at the driver again, eyes narrowing. The man blinked at him like he wasn’t sure if he was about to be murdered or offered another morphine drip.

“Go,” Joel growled. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“I’m almost done.”

“No. You’re not.”

He stepped forward, crowding your space. Not touching, but too close. His presence filled your lungs like smoke.

“I didn’t let you walk out of that trauma room with your hands inside someone’s goddamn chest just to have you stay late because some piece of shit didn’t want to miss his fucking dinner reservation.”

“I said I’m fine—”

“You’re not. Your face is pale. Your knees are shaking. You’re bleeding from your neck again—”

You touched your collar.

Shit.

The scratch had reopened.

Again.

You hadn’t even noticed.

Joel’s voice dropped lower. Quieter. More dangerous.

“You stay here another hour, I’m not gonna be able to stop myself from saying and doing something that gets me fired.”

You swallowed.

“You need someone to finish the chart.”

“I don’t need anything but you out of this hospital and in my bed before I fucking lose it.”

You blinked.

His eyes locked on yours.

“This isn’t up for debate.”

He turned to the driver without breaking eye contact.

“She’s off,” Joel told him. “She doesn’t work for you. You want someone to hold your hand and stroke your ego, call your fucking wife.”

The man gaped.

Joel turned back to you.

And this time—softer, just slightly—he added, “Go home.”

You didn’t argue.

Because he wasn’t asking.

You peeled your gloves off. Dropped them into the bin.

Your scrubs were soaked. Your throat burned.

And for the first time in hours, you realized how goddamn tired you were.

Joel’s eyes followed you until you reached the staff hallway.

And you could feel the heat of them still burning between your shoulder blades as you stepped into the elevator—

Finally, finally—

Done.

[loveharlow]

↷⋯♡ᵎ MATCHING WOUNDS

JJ Maybank x Dealer!Reader [ more jj content ]

SYNOPSIS & WC ‧₊˚ [idk] Where you and JJ share a blunt and childhood trauma

WARNING(S) & A/N ‧₊˚ mentions of child neglect, mentions of child abuse, underage drug use, swearing, kind of hurt/comfort

THE TRAILER WAS THICK WITH SMOKE. You and JJ sat on the floor, passing a blunt that glowed like a dying ember between the two of you. Josephine had left for her waitressing shift at The Island Club hours ago, a stark contrast to the way you spent your days.

Josephine's trailer, Betsy, was your shared space in Shady Acres — a trailer park on The Cut known less for its scenic beauty and more for housing a significant portion of the island's drug trade — users and dealers alike. You were a dealer, and Betsy, for the time being, was your base of operations. This exchange with JJ was likely your last of the day.

JJ was a relatively new client. He'd appeared on the scene after his previous dealer acquired a lengthy list of charges and fled the state, leaving the blonde high and dry. Unlike many, JJ hadn't gravitated towards Barry, the other prominent dealer in the area. There was an unexpected ease between you and JJ, a connection that had quickly evolved into shared smoke sessions where the lines of business and something similar to pleasure blurred.

"So,” He started. “It's just you and your sister holding down the fort?" JJ asked, exhaling a plume of smoke. He pinched the blunt between his fingers, offering it to you.

"Yep." You replied with a tight smile, taking the offered joint.

"Where are your folks?" He chuckled, watching you inhale. "Or are they the 'out of sight, out of mind' type?"

"They're gone." You said, smoke curling from your lips. "Probably squatting in some crumbling building in another state, chasing their next high." You passed the blunt back to JJ, his fingers briefly brushing yours. "What about yours?" you countered, resting your forearms on your bent knees. The setting sun painted the trailer's interior in hues of deep orange through the open windows.

"Mom, uh, she split a long time ago..." JJ's tone carried a hint of pain. He ran a hand through his hair, toying with the joint. "And my dad, he's...somethin’ else." He sighed, taking a long drag.

"...’S that why you're never home?" You reached behind you, grabbing your Monster Energy drink. "Sorry, if that's…too personal. I've just noticed you're always here, with your crew, or running ‘round on The Cut."

JJ raised an eyebrow. "You been keeping tabs on me, junkie?" A smirk played on his lips.

You scoffed, taking a swig. "Please. You're just hard to miss." You shrugged, taking the blunt back. "And let's not kill the rotation, alright?" You offered him a sarcastic smile as you leaned back against the cabinet.

JJ rolled his eyes, stretching his legs out. "My old man's an asshole, but only at home. So, if I never go home-."

"You avoid the asshole-ry." You finished for him.

"Exactly." He watched you smoke, then turned serious when remembering your words. "But you've got it worse. No way your folks just bail with two kids in the picture."

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your knees. "You think so?"

"I'm just sayin’," JJ shrugged. "That's messed up. They just left? Just like that?"

"Look, blondie, my family was a shit-show with a kitchen that was only kept clean enough to snort lines off of every surface in it." You said, leaning your head back. "Blood don’t mean shit. If my parents taught me anything, it's that."

"Sounds about right." JJ agreed, taking another drink. "Mine's still a train wreck. Just traded the kitchen for a boatyard. And I don't see my dad leavin’ anytime soon."

"Your old man sounds like a real piece of work..." You said. "I'm surprised you haven't been swallowed up by the system."

"The system? Hell, my dad is the system." Bitterness laced his words. "Predictable, abusive, and you can’t escape him. At least the actual system offers three meals a day."

"Ha!" You laughed, the sound catching JJ off guard. "Hardly. You'd be lucky to get three meals a week. Foster care's a damn joke. It’s just free bread for money-hungry assholes and a place for the state to dump kids they don't want." The lightness vanished, replaced by a cold flatness in your eyes.

"...You were in the system?" JJ asked, his gaze softening. You nodded in response. "When?...Why?"

You groaned, pushing yourself into a slightly straighter position. "You ask a lot of questions, blondie." You sighed. "But fine. You want the condensed version...or the director's cut?"

JJ just shrugged. "I've got time."

You leaned forward, meeting his gaze as you spoke. "Alright then." You adjusted. "My parents were addicts. Name a drug, they did it. The neighbors knew, cops were there all the time, but nothing ever changed. My sister and I slipped through the cracks. When I was eight, Jo had just turned eighteen...and she told me she was leaving." Your voice shook slightly.

"I begged her to stay, or take me with her, but she couldn't. As bad as it was there, she had nothing, no means to care for a kid. But she promised she'd call, send what she could, and that one day, she'd get me out." You bit your cheek, fighting back a wave of emotion. "I was alone with my parents for two years. Jo called, but the calls never went through. Without her, the bills went unpaid — no phone, no electricity, no running water. She had to come visit me at school when she could."

"Damn...."

"Yeah," You sighed, fidgeting with your fingers. "When I was ten, my mom came home, freaking out. Next thing I knew, they were throwing stuff in a bag, telling me they'd be back soon." You clenched your jaw at the memory. "It was no surprise when they never came back. And I was there for two weeks, starving and terrified, before a social worker found me. I guess a neighbor had noticed it was too quiet and called it in. Again."

"Hold up. They just left you?" JJ was incredulous.

"Mhm." You confirmed, watching him snub out the blunt in the ashtray, the cherry burning away as he listened. "I survived on half-empty water bottles and moldy PB&J’s. And foster care wasn't some kind of salvation." A bitter edge returned to your voice. "Most foster parents are just in it for the check. And even with the good ones... the system bounces you around so much, you never get to stay." You shook your head, the memories surfacing.

"Dealing... It's something a lot of us picked up inside. Old sleazebags prey on vulnerable kids to do their dirty work. It's hard to get a job when you're a foster kid. So, a lot of us turn to easier, less legal means. And even when you make it out, it has a way of sticking with you. It's all you know." You shrugged. "Jo finally tracked me down and got me out when I was fourteen. By then, I was old enough that they didn't care who took me. Case closed as far as they were concerned." You laughed, a hollow sound. "And Jo, of course, freaked when she found out what I was doing." You let your head fall, a humorless laugh escaping you.

JJ reached out, placing a hand on your knee. "I'm sorry, dude. That's seriously fucked up."

“Yeah, I guess.” You shrugged, deflecting. "Anyway, enough of the sob stories," you said, voice lighter, the shift abrupt. "You ruined our smoke session with all your questions." You flashed a smile, the change in demeanor so fast it gave JJ whiplash. "Wanna hit another one?" You pulled another pretty pink blunt from your pocket.

JJ just stared for a moment, then nodded, the shared vulnerability replaced by the familiar rhythm of give and take, smoke and survival.

JJ Maybank Taglist & Dealer!Reader Taglist in replies!

feedback is appreciated! thanks for reading.

©loveharlow

[shrinkthisviolet]

no literally like I do think she gravitates toward and responds better to female leadership (even though she told mohan she could take constructive criticism and immediately started arguing scvbnbcvnmgfchjjf) but it drives me crazy when people are like "oh she's just a MAN-HATER 😈 but it's okay because she was abused 😇 but she was suspicious of langdon because he's a MAN in power" as a way to gloss over the fact that his behavior was objectively inappropriate and she was doing the smart and responsible thing by paying attention to drug inconsistencies

(post + my tags for context)

YESSS exactly! There is definitely truth to the fact that she has an issue with male authority figures, but that has more to do with “well she and her best friend were assaulted by a trusted male adult and then her best friend killed herself, so yeah, obviously she’ll be wary of men in positions of power.” It’s not based on her visibly responding poorly to male leadership, but rather an understandable trauma response. And like...it doesn’t cause her to distrust any of the men on the show.

Because what we see is that she responds well to those who mentor her, regardless of what gender the mentor in question is. Mohan is blunt...after asking Trinity if it’s okay. Collins is firm but not unkind. So is Ellis. Abbott scolds her for doing the procedure by herself (and reminder to those who need it, she did try to find an attending first), but also praises her for good work done (this combo helps foster trust). Robby is crashing out with the David stuff on top of everything else, but he still takes the time to tell Santos she did the right thing. Garcia is the first person to be encouraging and treat her as an important asset to the team (she and Santos fight later, but Santos still trusts her because Garcia encouraged her first). Santos responds positively to all of these...because she is not being scolded (a little, yes, but not just that). She is being mentored, she is being guided.

The only person she really has an issue with is Langdon. And...this needs some nuance. It’s not because he’s a male authority figure per se. It’s because he’s a male authority figure who seems to have it out for her and is not shy about showing it. He yells at her, puts her down when she tries to bring up concerns, pulls rank frequently, etc. He thus comes across to her as that kind of male authority figure: the kind she needs to be wary of, careful around, because who knows what he’s capable of.

(Ofc on Langdon’s end, he clearly sees so much of himself in her (which is especially clear when he complains about her to Robby to discredit her) that it’s causing him to be harsher on her than the others, which just reinforces Santos’s perceptions of him...and so the vicious cycle continues).

Look at how quickly she takes the blame for Mohan, knowing how pissed Langdon is and wanting to protect her. Look at how instinctual that is. Santos has done this before, with someone she loves (maybe her best friend at some point, maybe her siblings if the show does indeed let her have younger siblings) in the face of a powerful adult who wants to hurt them. Take the pain, be the shield, do not let the person behind you be hurt. Emotionally (which is the case here), physically, it doesn't matter—the pain is hers to bear (especially after she failed to protect her best friend from it. Hey, for all we know, maybe her best friend was this for her too).

And YESSS she didn’t report Langdon because he was a man with power over her. She reported him because there were multiple drug discrepancies that he brushed off, and she found it suspicious and investigated and reported it. Which, as Robby said, is what you’re supposed to do! See Something, Say Something is a very common refrain in hospitals. Especially when Langdon was not only stealing drugs, but also diluting certain medications and not telling anyone, putting patients in serious danger!

(Given that the drugs he was taking were benzos, he likely wasn’t high on-shift (benzos are depressants), but...the theft and dilution are pretty bad in and of themselves)

The takeaway is clear: Santos is likely wary of men in power initially, but she doesn’t necessarily have a problem with them unless they reinforce her fears of possible harm. Langdon does. Robby and Abbott do not.

[nicstylus]

I'm rereading Skulduggery Pleasant for the nth time. Here are my newish revelations.

Sceptre of the Ancients Edition!

First (You are here!) || Next (SoonTM)

List of artwork links at the bottom.

!! Spoilers for all of Phase 1 and 2 !!

Starting off strong with Gordons advice to Skulduggery ending up being HEAVY foreshadowing for Stephanie instead. "To my good friend and guide Skulduggery Pleasant, I leave the following advice: Your path is your own, and I have no wish to sway you*, but sometimes the greatest enemy we can face is ourselves**, and the greatest battle is against the darkness within***. There is a storm coming, and sometimes the key to safe harbor is hidden from us, and sometimes it is right before our eyes****." * Proven later by Echo Gordon not trying very hard to talk her out of participating in the world of Magic. ** Heavy implication on Darquesse there. *** This is also dripping with Darquesse foreshadowing, but could also be referring to Lord Vile. Hey, we all have a little of both in us don't we? **** In this case he was obviously talking about the brooch, but it could also be referencing to fact that Stephanie was surrounded by her family here. Skulduggery was there, but he is the embodiment of all her future trauma and the danger she'll find herself in. She was safe among family, safe in a mortal life. "Safe Harbor" was indeed, right before her eyes, and she walked away from it.

The twins and Steph's heights confuse me. The twins are 3 years old, and described as short. Stephanie is described as tall and strong. So. Are they the same height in this book? I refuse to believe 12yo Steph is taller than the 15yo twins. Esp since I picture Beryl as really tall and scrawny, even if Fergus isnt haha

Crepuscular is mentioned as early as book 1. I wonder if Derek actually had a plan for him at this point or if it was just 'eh we'll burn that bridge when we get to it' type of deal. The Shalgoth also appear in this book, and they don't even get a name until phase 2 lol

It could also be interpreted that Darquesse shows up as early as book one. When Vindick Leather rams his car into the Bentley, Valkyrie notes a voice in her head. Obviously this could just be attributed to literally her own voice and instincts, but Darquesse does this a lot in later books:

How the fuck did China and Tanith know where and when to show up at Gordons estate when Serpine finally got the Sceptre. Ghastly wasn't with them. China would have known where the estate was, but why did Tanith come? I can't see China announcing to her library, or anyone really, that she was mounting a rescue out of the kindness of her heart. Tanith and China weren't yet feuding, so maybe Tanith came to her for help? How did Tanith know they were in danger?

The man with the bowtie never gets a name. Hilarious.

Neither does the Administrator, actually. He dies in this book, so it isn't really needed I suppose.

It's funny to me that the Sceptre is Relevant until the very last book. Every time I forget about it when reading through the series, Derek brings it back. It goes through like five different iterations of itself, even eventually being replaced by its alternate dimension self, but its easily the most important 'object' in the SP series. Derek just can't get rid of it.

There are a lot of one-offs in this book, and you can tell that Derek wasn't sure how he wanted his world yet. - He describes strange looking people in the library (which, okay, we definitely see some strange looking people for the rest of the series) - Vindicks fire-proof discipline. We never see anything like that again, even from elementals (Vindick is listed as an adept on the wiki at least) - Skulduggery describes a man who can read minds and a woman who can 'change her shape, become anyone' in chapter 5. Reading minds seems to be a high level sensitive skill but not hugely rare. Shape shifting on the other hand never gets mentioned again and gets replaced by facade sigils. - Family crypts. We see that Ghastly's family has a ton of stuff in the Vault, and then it's never really mentioned again until much much later. - Family crests are also something that only sort of show up a few times. The only two that we know about are Ghastly's (shield and bear) and China's (scorpion and 3 circles), plus whoever has the leopard and crossed swords. Skulduggery does say 'the Scorpion stings the fox' when speaking about China's treachery. This leads me to believe that Skulduggery's crest has something to do with a fox, but it could also just be Skulduggery thinking highly of himself haha - Tanith is introduced by killing a troll. I don't think trolls ever show up again. What was his name? We'll never know. - She also says she has an older brother. Is he ever mentioned again? - Jasper, the 8yo hard of hearing neighbor boy is just. Never mentioned again. Steph waves at him and then he disappears into the ether of Derek's brain. - There's a guy with a porcelain mask in the library in chapter 14. I could be forgetting but I don't think porcelain is ever mentioned anywhere else in the series except when describing China's features. Or maybe some furniture or something. - The Sceptre sings. The Sceptre also breaks at the end of this book, so maybe it broke the singing feature for good, but I don't think it sings at all in later books, in any iteration of the Sceptre. - The 'worst of the worst' criminals are held in the Sanctuary. This is reconned later with Hammer Lane Gaol and Coldheart

Actually, a lot of concepts are set up in this book, which makes sense, it being the first book and all. It's cool to look back and see how long some strings took to tie off though - The Shalgoth didn't even get a name until late phase 2. We even see our good friend 'fleshy mass' two or three times! Rip dogface. - Echo stones get brought back almost immediately through Echo Gordon. Oisin even shows up again in late phase 2 :D - Anthem Mire is mentioned in SotA but doesn't become relevant until book 3 - Stephanie notes that her reflection gives her the creeps. Surely that won't lead to anything nefarious in the future! - The whole 'Last of the Ancients bloodline' plotline gets set up in this book. That will follow Valkyrie for like. All of the books. Crazy. - The Irish Sanctuary having ridiculous amounts of staff that betray them. Shout out to the unnamed Administrator for dying a horrible death without also being a sellout. Disappointed in you Tome. - The White Cleaver, also, hangs around for the entirety of Phase 1.*

Serpine turns the entrance to the caves (what I always imagined to be a stone floor) to dust. We revisit the caves in later books and I'm pretty sure they still have and use the brooch/key- How did they even fix that lo

I forgot that the Canary Car was literally turned to dusk. I seem to remember Skulduggery claiming that one of his cars "set itself on fire." Maybe it was the Purple Menace.

I also completely forgot that Serpine is a zealot here. He just never struck me as religious. I also don't care about him so I never gave it much through I guess

Rereading this book made me realize that we don't see a lot of Hollow Men after the necromancer trilogy. They get replaced by wretchlings in the Darquesse trilogy and then... forgotten about in phase 2 completely. They're also described as 'minions of Serpine' in this book, though thats retconned later on, sort of.

I thought Tomes first name was Sagittarius this whole time. How did I never realize it was Sagacious?

Have I explained how much I love China? Because I really love China. Like a lot. Just so you know. (a lot, guys)

God they could have been such great friends. I love their rivalry because it's hilarious but we were robbed of China/Tanith sisterhood. Can you imagine China and Ghastly working so closely together to get Tanith back from the remnant? I know it doesn't fit China's selfish narrative, and her being protective of Val makes more sense because she watched her grow up, but ahhh

Valkyrie starts to be able to understands Skulduggery's mannerisms and slight movements on like, day 2 or 3 of being around him.

Much much later, I think it's Abyssinia that asks her what its like to spend so much time with someone and not ever be able to know what he's thinking? Abyssinia, honey, were you even trying? This girl is 12.

Once Stephanie chooses a name, Skulduggery spends the rest of the book flip flopping between calling her Valkyrie and Stephanie. I never noticed this before, but it's interesting. When speaking about her to other people, he'll call her Valkyrie. When he's speaking directly to her, or yelling at her because she's in danger, he calls her Stephanie. I'm sure my English teachers would want me to dig deeper into the meanings behind that.

Meritorious is the first death they we whitness from a first hand perspective, which I never realized before. He's also one of five POVs in this book: Stephanie, Serpine, Tanith, Meritorious and the Administrator for a few paragraphs. I think this is the only book in the series with two different POVs in one chapter- here when Meritorious dies, and when Tanith turns to fight the White Cleaver by herself.

We don't see Tanith get angry very often, but she's PISSED when she tells Skulduggery about Tome's betrayal:

Damn girl xD

However, Skulduggery's response to Tanith's anger will heavily shape who Valkyrie becomes.

I think Stephanie internalizes these lines way more than anyone realizes until it's way too late. She will carry this for the rest of the series. Exhibit 1:

Ah, this is probably why Tanith doesn't like China very much xD

The Cleavers were set up to be this super huge and powerful force, and then starting in this book their numbers are so decimated that they don't recover from it for the rest of the series. They just keep getting more and more cannon-foddery and smaller in number xD

* This is actually not my revelation but something that was pointed out to me by @afandomroom, the parallels between Tanith and the White/Black Cleaver. Tanith was supposed to die in this book. Derek instead gives her horrific near death experiences in every book leading up to her possession, but that's besides the point. At the end of this book, Tanith fights the White Cleaver (whom she sent to die, and thus is part of the reason he is created in the first place) and loses horribly. Then, allllll the way at the end of the series she again fights him- this time as the Black Cleaver- where she just barely wins. Full circle, just like the gaping hole in Tanith's back

✏ ✏ ✏ ✏ ✏ ✏ ✏ ✏ ✏ ✏ ✏ ✏ ✏ ✏ ✏ ✏ ✏ ✏ ✏ ✏ ✏ ✏ ✏ ✏

Here's my SotA-specific artworks:

Cover Redesign

Fergus Stealing Silverware (Steph design by @neims-skeleton-obsession) Human Fireball

Don't say I didn't warn you

Meeting China Sorrows Version 1 - Version 2 - Extra

Reflection Sigil You Look Lost (ft @staticart)

Warriors gotta stick together Serpine Torturing Skulduggery

That'll Teach Him to Underestimate Stupid People

Bliss' betrayal

"Skulduggery! She's not being Professional!" Version 1 - Version 2 - Clueless

Never Could Fight Worth A Damn Tanith design Bonus collab with @staticart

Jesus did you read all that? Look at you go :]

[dioslesbianwife]

Can I please request the Jojo's with a female partner who is like gojo satoru her having infinity and his powers.

Her being born with the ability 6 eyes and it literally being so overwhelming she walks around with a blindfold or dark sunglasses.

Gojo loves sweets and is extremely playful and adopted the child of the man that tried to kill her.

I'm sorry if it's so chaotic 😭 I love your work so much stay amazing

sure, im happy you like my work!!!! tyyy and thank you for requesting- i hope you enjoy <333

You're a woman born with Infinity, the Six Eyes, and an immense power only few can even comprehend. You’re radiant, playful, and a little mischievous- like the world's most dangerous cotton candy. Always wearing a blindfold or dark sunglasses because your vision sees everything too vividly, it’s a sensory overload unless you dull it.

You’re also incredibly sweet- like, feeding stray cats and gifting your partner a whole bakery sweet. You adopted the orphaned child of a man who once tried to kill you- “He needed saving more than I needed revenge,” you said with a soft smile.

Jonathan Joestar

Completely in awe of your strength, but what steals his heart is your kindness.

Finds your playfulness a little overwhelming at first, but eventually it brings out his inner dork.

Cries when you tell him you adopted that child. He thinks you’re a divine gift to the world.

Joseph Joestar

“Wait, so you can stop anything from touching you? Are you even real???”

Teases you for wearing sunglasses at night. You flick his forehead and make him spin in midair.

He's drawn to your layered nature- cheerful and terrifyingly powerful. He falls HARD.

Jotaro Kujo

Grunts the first time you stop a punch with Infinity and casually fix your hair.

The blindfold and quiet confidence give him the vibes of someone ancient and godlike. He respects that.

Loves how you play with kids and make time for the little joys. You’re his peace.

Josuke Higashikita

Thinks your power is the coolest thing he’s ever seen, especially when you boop a guy and they’re flung back.

Obsessed with how you act like the world’s your playground. Gets nervous when you flirt too hard.

Adores your soft side and often brings you sweets to match your own stash.

Giorno Giovanna

He recognizes your weight in the world instantly. You’re someone to revere- but also to love.

When you reveal your adoption of your would-be attacker’s child, Giorno sees a kindred spirit in your justice.

He respects your blindfold, but also memorizes every little detail of your smile.

Jolyne Cujoh

“Okay, hot and terrifying. This is a new crush level.”

You become her chaotic girlfriend. She loves when you drag her on surprise dates and win every claw machine prize.

She finds deep comfort in the way you make others feel safe. Calls you “Sunshine” half-jokingly.

Johnny Joestar

At first he’s suspicious- no one that powerful could be that gentle, right?

But you let him hold your hand while you both watch the sunset in silence. That’s when he starts to believe in you.

Your infinite patience helps heal his trauma. You always meet him where he is.

Josuke Higashikita (Gappy)

He stares at your blindfold for a solid ten minutes before saying, “You look cool.”

He asks if your ability feels lonely. You say yes. He doesn’t say much after that- just holds your hand.

When you laugh at his quiet jokes, he feels proud. You bring light into his shattered world.

[stuffandnosense]

WE NEED A NAME FOR WILLIAM AND ALT UNIVERSE ENGINEER MARINER CAUSE I’M GOING DOWN WITH THIS SHIP.

[haine-kleine]

is it too early to say that the narrative of Jinx being Vander's daughter was an OOC characterisation used to overwrite her being Silco's daughter because they needed to speedrun her redemption without being controversial

[starcrossedxwriter]

Media literacy is so deadddddd and it’s not even funny lol spoilers ahead cause I have thoughts on how well Sinners/Ryan explored race in this movie

What I loved about sinners was that it was 100% about race but honestly did not feel like it was beating you over the head with it imo

Ryan captured and infused the racism of the time in a such a natural way. And he explored so many complex themes well in 2 hrs:

- the politics of being a white passing woman and the trouble she ultimately instigated forcing herself into a space she knew she shouldn’t be in. How Stack told Sammie not to even look at her and he himself didn’t want to be seen talking to her because she looked like a white woman

- Grace being the weakest link (le sigh) and the general historical look at Asian Americans in the Deep South. And the fact that Remmick KNEW she would be the weak link and manipulated the one non black person to let them in.

- The symbolism of Annie - a black woman - being the only one to realize what was going on and Smoke actually listening and deferring to her even though he doesn’t believe in all the things she does.

- the complexities and origins of black music and how white people steal literally everything. The historical complexities of the villain being Irish, the reality that he did all this and kills almost? an entire town to essentially steal a black man’s soul and talent

- The lack of shock when they find out that the Klan was going to double cross them at sunrise because that’s just what white men do. And that they were prepared for it with multiple machine guns lol

- Even the not subtle internalized racism/colorism in stack using the term “field bitches” so casually when talking to Mary.

And those are just the things I remember off the top of my head lol some are far more subtle than others but even with all that commentary, honestly none of it took me out of the experience, it just got me more invested.

And what’s remarkable to me is not that he incorporated all these things. Because I think his catalogue highlights his thoughtfulness in every project. But that he managed to do it all without making me feel like I was watching Black suffering and trauma for two hours lol

Instead, I felt like I was watching a really well done, extremely engaging thriller that told a beautiful heartbreaking story about the supernatural, about family and love and music and home and freedom. With Black people and chose to lean 100% into the realities of what being black meant in that time period. And I honestly don’t think many filmmakers thread that needle well imo

This was a rant no one asked for and is not fully relevant to the original post 😂 but anywho, this is where my sinners commentary goes lol

people are dumb *end rant* LOL

Someone said Sinners isn’t about race. I’m going to bed

[gingermintpepper]

Obsessed with the way Evadne's relationship with Apollo is described. Obsessed with the way Apollo was especially gentle with her because she was sheltered, hidden away and hadn't had any sort of experience with love prior to Apollo (and due to it being described as her 'first learning Aphrodite's joy' through Apollo', it was probably her first time even being attracted to someone). Obsessed with the way when she runs away, she stops in a violet patch to give birth. Y'know, violets, very famously the flower so strongly associated with Aphrodite that they were used in love potions? Those violets. Obsessed with the way that when Apollo realised his lover was going to have to deliver their child alone, he sent BOTH the goddess of childbirth and ALL THREE OF THE FATES to help and support her. Obsessed with the way that Apollo sends snakes to feed his baby honey straight from their fangs because Evadne abandons their son out of straight primal fear when her stepfather finds her and how the description of that honey is 'sweet venom' [ἰός] of the bees and is DEFINITELY a poetic pair/pun with [ἴον] aka violets and that every single thing about this relationship, conception and birth is a complete and utter fairytale down to Evadne's insanely overprotective stepfather having an immediate change of heart when he learned Evadne's child was an actual, legitimate Son of Apollo and the babe, after being cared for by his dad's honey-fanged snake buddies, was found perfectly healthy five days later swaddled in a blanket of violets (y'know the flowers so strongly associated with Aphrodite that they were used for lo-) and they called him Iamus aka Boy of the Violets which is AAAAAARRRR I AM GNAWING AT MY ENCLOSURE

Iamus was made of love. Everything about him was surrounded by deep and profound love and like, let's not even talk about his whole Thing of when he came of age and was like "I need to find out what my purpose is" and he literally had a Disney Protagonist moment where he ran out into the wilds and was like "Father!! Grandfather!! Tell me what I'm supposed to doooo!!" and then APOLLO FUCKING ANSWERED AND LED HIM TO ONE HIS TEMPLES ENTIRELY BY TALKING WITH IAMUS AND LETTING HIM FOLLOW HIS VOICE FOR THE WHOLE JOURNEY LIKE -

What do y'all know about the kind of SSS tier romantic escapades Apollo had fr?

[undead-moth]

I know I've been on about this for a while now and I'm being a hater but you're telling me SydCarmy was "always meant to be platonic" even though there are two seasons of writing making use of tried-and-true explicitly romantic tropes, themes and writing signals, and SydLuca is going to be romantic because...he was nice to her on screen for a few minutes?

I don't even care if people ship SydLuca, or if they just prefer it, but you can't honestly tell me that you believe Carmy was always meant to be a friend but Luca is an obvious love interest.

Just because Syd and Carmy haven't kissed or confessed their love to each other doesn't mean that isn't very obviously the direction this show is going. The Bear has already shown you who is endgame. It has shown you every episode of the show so far.

Honestly I really don't think The Bear fanbase understands this show or cares about these characters or the story being told here, which is unfortunate because this show is shockingly well-written in comparison to most shows right now, and we should be so grateful for it but all we're doing is complaining that the writers led us on by not making a ship canon fast enough. It's just. Sad.

[travelingtwentysomething]

🌚Dream Journal🌝

I just woke up from a dream of my upcoming family Thanksgiving where my most despised uncle got the cops called on him for slapping me.

I laughingly rehashed the story for the police officer.

My uncle had insulted me by saying I was a "piece of shit waste of space just like my mother".

And so I chuckled and said, "hmm, yes, my mother and I do have a thing or two in common. Most notably that we independently came to the same conclusion- you are a selfish, childish, waste of a man, with a suspiciously unnatural hairline."

And that is when you could hear a pin drop, and he turned purple with rage, and slapped the shit out of me.

Then I called the police, and my family started to try and convince me not to call them, I said, "I'm not going to be abused at the hands of my own family and be silenced, you are all witnesses, if you do not speak up and tell the truth when the time comes, I will know who my abusers are, and who stands by and allows it."

Then my Uncle tries to verbally abuse me some more and tells me he demands respect and will not be disrespected by a child and no one will stand up for me because I brought it on myself.

And so I tell him, "I am a grown woman now, you will demand nothing of me, least of all respect. I responded to verbal abuse with truth, and you responded with physical abuse. You don't deserve respect, but the consequences you are about to receive are well deserved and of your own making."

Woke up very satisfied after seeing that asshole cuffed and spitting mad in the back of a police car.

[that-kid-from-vault-101]

She whimpers, and his teeth grit. That harsh voice so full of fire is suddenly so young and little and full of fear and pain and his heart breaks. For a moment he’s five years younger and the little girl on the table looks a lot more like him, a lot like her mother, his eyes and pale blonde hair and little smatters of freckles that stand out on her pale face as it blazed with fever. How he’d pushed what little he had but it just hadn’t been enough. How he’d held her little hand in his while she’d just…slipped away.

Please, God. He’d prayed. She’s just a little girl. Please.

She’s slipping closer and closer to shock with every passing second, in danger of simply fading out, but he isn’t going to let that happen. Not a single fucking chance in Hell, he’ll dig his scalpel into the reapers eye socket his goddamn self. He doesn’t know her from Adam, she may very well carve him open like a fish the moment she’s able to, but he has a job to do, sins to atone for, a patient to treat.

Little slits of green, as she fades into firmer consciousness and he nods along as she speaks, even as he wrangles on a pair of gloves and sets out his instruments proper. He needs to find the bleeder and stitch it, otherwise she’s going to die as soon as the tourniquet comes off.

“Yeah, there you are, kid.” He mutters, tearing upon a pack of sutures, preparing to dig in proper. Her eyes search his face, and there’s a cavalcade of emotion. Fear, dread, but above all dogged determination. The face of a man who has made up his mind how this is going to play out and will defy both the Devil and Almighty God to make it happen. She says she’s cold, and he’s already dug out a trauma blanket and tucked it around every part of her body he doesn’t need access to before he realizes it was accompanied by a name.

“Joel’s your traveling partner?” He asks, because he knows that keeping her talking will keep her conscious, and as long as she’s conscious her body will try to compensate. “He’s gonna be happy to see you when he finds you, Ellie. I’m going to make sure you’re around to see him again.”

Tears gather in her eyes, his stomach flips at the sight. No child should be allowed to look so hopeless, it’s wrong, it’s so fucking wrong and her hand is reaching out for something, anything, and without much hesitation his fingers wrap about her palm, huge in comparison, not caring for the blood that stains his glove.

“It’s going to be okay, Ellie. I promise.”

Well… if this was how it ended, at least Joel wouldn’t have to see it.

He wouldn’t have to carry her home in pieces. Wouldn’t have to bury another kid. Another failure.

A bitter kind of comfort, if you could call it that.

The cold wood of the door dug into her back, and she leaned into it like it could keep her whole. Her body had stopped shivering a while ago, and that was bad—really bad. Her blood made a slow, steady pool beneath her, soaking into the floor and the hem of her jeans. She could feel it leaving her. Like she was watching herself bleed out from somewhere far away.

Somewhere above it all, she thought she heard Aaron. His voice sounded like it was underwater—muffled, urgent, but not cruel. Not yet. Still trying to help her.

She couldn’t even lift her head. Her body had turned to stone, leaden and useless. Even her chest barely rose now, each breath coming out in short, sharp huffs, like her lungs were only half-interested in the whole staying-alive thing.

And then the nausea hit.

A sharp twist in her gut like something inside her had torn. Her whole stomach clenched, and she jerked forward—pain screaming up her leg as she moved.

A ragged gag tore from her throat, loud and wet. Once—twice—and then she lurched sideways, vomit splattering onto the ground beside her. Thin bile mixed with blood hit the concrete, and the sound alone made her gag again. She coughed, retching until her ribs screamed, until the taste of iron and acid burned in her nose.

She slumped back against the door, panting, shaking.

“Fuck…” she rasped, lips slick with blood and spit.

Her eyes fluttered open just long enough to spot the drawers Aaron had called out. Barely a foot away, half-open. If she could get to them—if she could get something in place, maybe she could stop the worst of the bleeding.

Her hand dragged across the floor, a slow crawl that left a red smear behind her. It took everything she had just to reach. She missed once. Missed twice.

Then her fingers caught the edge of the drawer and pulled.

It scraped open with a loud, rusty groan.

Inside—rags. Too white. Too clean for a place like this. Probably wouldn’t stay that way for long.

She grabbed one, or tried to. Her fingers trembled too hard, jerking uselessly over the cloth until she managed to pull one free. Her chest heaved as she stared down at the wound pulsing in her thigh, blood bubbling out with every heartbeat.

“This is gonna f–fucking suck,” she whispered, more breath than voice.

And with a gasp, she jammed the rag down.

White-hot agony surged through her—electric and immediate. Her head snapped back, a strangled cry clawing its way up from her throat. The pain brought her back for a moment, cleared the haze just long enough to remember she was still here. Still bleeding. Still fighting.

[thats-a-lot-of-cortisol]

2 & 3 from section 1 for peri and 7 from whichever section has a more interesting #7 for diodore -moss

oooh these are fun ones!

2. Describe their tent set-up (outside and inside) (Peri)

I think Peri's tent is constructed similarly to Gale and Astarion's (boxy, fabric walls, little covered area outside). Deep blue fabric w/ golden astronomical embroidery, mostly the sort of thing you see on star maps. Little golden tassles around the edges of the tarp (?) and the doorframe. He'd have a small, circular, dark wood side table short enough that you can use it sitting on the ground, and a dark blue pillow next to it; there would be some parchment and a bronze miniature astrolabe on the table. The inside would be just. full to the brim with the gaudiest night-sky-themed pillows you've ever seen. No bedroll, no palette, just a nest that would put those cube pits in trampoline parks to shame. There would be two bird perches for his familiar Medani: one taller one next to his tent and one shorter one under the overhang. The shorter one would have a crow-sized bow-tie hanging from it. Rugs on rugs on the outside area ofc. 3. What would their character quest be titled? Why? (Peri)

This is a hard one! His tav ending involves taking over the Waterdeep arm of the Harpers, so I think his arc would have something to do with that. He'd be pretty bitter about being dropped into another near-apocalyptic mess when dealing with the last one a few years prior was supposed to be a one-time thing. Something-something ptsd in a world that doesn't have the words for that yet, something-something 'once a hero always a hero', something-something the weight of responsibility...he's a planeswalker so I think part of it would be whether he decides to stay on Toril long-term and directly help rebuild the Waterdeep Harpers or if he continues to run travel around afterwards, so maybe The Far Traveller/The Far Walker?

Harpson/Fae-son are also potential options. "Fae-son" nods to him being a changeling without it being super obvious (like Astarion's "The Pale Elf"). It would also mimic his backstory reveals from RoT ("oh he's not 'from here' so, like, the Feywild" -> "OH he's not from here"). 7. Describe their arc. How would a player help resolve it? What choices can be made? Can your Tav be turned down a dark path, or pulled to a lighter one? (Diodore)

Buckle up because we're in for a long one here. I've thought about Dora's story arc a lot because she's the first of my tavs that I truly made for the game while having full control over her backstory, etc. (versus Corentin, who had their arc baked into the story as a durge). Dora's a paladin of Corellon (oath of ancients) and her story arc as a companion would have to do with whether or not she should accept capital-r-Redemption, the process by which a drow can be truly "freed" from Lolth and rejoin the ranks of the rest of elven society. It involves all of the Redeemed drow's memories being erased and them being reincarnated as a surface elf. The implication seems to be that without that, regardless of a drow's actions, they'd be thrown back to Lolth when they die? Or at least that their eternal fate is unknown (which is the way I prefer to think of it for. personal reasons). Under normal circumstances, Dora would be a long way from Redemption being presented to her at all (she's not even 200 yet and has only been on the surface for a couple decades), but like with the other gods' Chosen among the companions, near-apocalyptic circumstances tend to speed up those sorts of things.

Of course, you'd have the themes of faith & relationship with deity when they're all unequivocally real and are also mostly all assholes; maintaining or breaking generational cycles; facing the unknown; morality when none of your choices are "good" (and how that interacts with morality vs self preservation); power vs freedom; identity outside of the people who made you; etc. The choice would first be presented to her sometime in late Act I/early Act II, likely the first long rest after the group resurfaces from the Underdark and you've probably gotten some of her backstory already. I have no idea how Larian would have characterized Corellon, but he's considered one of the more benevolent/open-minded deities iirc, which could be interesting to see contrasted with Mystra, Vlaa'kith, and Shar. How much that open-mindedness would extend to a drow, even one who has been a faithful follower even before she escaped to the Surface (and who inherited that faith from her father), is unclear. At the beginning of the game she would be leaning towards accepting Redemption, despite her own misgivings about whether or not she would still be her in that case.

Her final decision (at the ending pier scene) would depend on the relationship she has with the PC and the other companions. Her best ending, imo, would be her not accepting Redemption but continuing to be a force for good. If she has a good relationship with the PC, she would have something to lose. I think seeing the House of Mourning would affect her too. After all, the thing Corellon is offering to her as a way to find peace is the same thing the Sharrans are using as a way to manipulate and control others.

She's viscerally aware of how she was socialized and very actively chooses "good", so pushing her towards a darker path would be incredibly difficult but not impossible. If you side with the goblins she'll leave immediately, and turn on you if she's in your party when you attack the grove. But if you decide to try and control the cult in Act II, depending on your over-all actions before then and how you've interacted with her, you could disillusion her to the point of convincing her to break her oath. That path would entail convincing her that controlling the cult is actually the best idea. I'm sure there would be other times that her oath could break that wouldn't necessarily lock her into an "evil" path, especially with how Oathbreakers are handled in the game. Knocking out Minthara instead of killing her outright and letting Auntie Ethel go in Act I instead of killing her are two things that come to mind.

If she doesn't choose Redemption she would be at the epilogue party, of course. I'm a bit undecided on what would happen if she does choose Redemption. She may not be there at all, w/ Jaheira, Halsin, Minthara, and/or Astarion mentioning running into her in her new, reincarnated state. Or she would be there, confused, and mention how the PC seems familiar in a way she can't quite place. In that case, she would ask them how they know each other and mention something about feeling a twinge of grief looking at everyone, but that she doesn't know why she feels that way. It would be up to the PC how much they tell her (if they tell her anything at all).

[neo--queen--serenity]

It’s heartbreaking to know that when Anshi looks back on her first encounter with the late emperor—the man who sexually abused her for years—she can only describe her 10-year old self as ambitious.

In the light novel, Anshi is far less aware of why she was sent to the rear palace, and it’s clear in the books that she did not intend to grab the emperor’s attention.

But in the manga—now the anime—she says she knew, that she understood what she was getting into, and that she reached out to him deliberately.

This is very likely a lie she told herself to cope with the trauma of the abuse she endured, abuse that dictated the course of the rest of her life, for better or for worse.

Because, even if Anshi knew, on paper, what her father intended by sending her to the rear palace, what 10-year old would understand, truly, the implications of winning the emperor’s favor? What prepubescent child fully understands sexual grooming or abuse for what it is, understands how it will hurt them?

Anshi falls for the oldest lie children of sexual abuse tell themselves: that they brought this upon themselves, that they were somehow responsible for what happened.

Telling herself that she put herself in his path out of ambition gives her the illusion of agency. It allows her to ignore the glaring, obvious signs that she could not have refused him if she’d wanted to. It is also a manifestation of her own self-loathing, the all too common misplaced guilt that rape survivors feel in the wake of their assault.

This particular coping mechanism is what drove her to assault the late emperor right back when she was in her late 20’s.

That helplessness, that rage, that unresolved trauma, led to her repeating the cycle of abuse, led her to forcing herself onto him as an adult to reclaim that agency she knows she never had.

And this assault brought about her second pregnancy—the birth of the moon prince, the current emperor’s younger brother.

And even though Anshi knows Jinshi is Ah-Duo’s son, not hers, Anshi was still the woman who raised him. She feels this guilt and revulsion every time she looks at Jinshi, especially since he resembles the late emperor so strongly.

And even though Anshi loves Jinshi deeply, she is constantly haunted by the self-loathing she associates with him. She calls his very existence immoral, a living embodiment of her sins. And it’s so heart-wrenching, so tragic that she blames herself for everything, that she believes all of this happened due to her own, selfish sense of ambition.