#but she's a neurosurgery resident :(

[nerdgirlnarrates]

Even though it's been months since I switched from neurosurgery to internal medicine, I still have a hard time not being angry about the training culture and particularly the sexism of neurosurgery. It wasn't the whole reason I switched, but truthfully it was a significant part of my decision.

I quickly got worn out by constantly being questioned over my family plans. Within minutes of meeting me, attendings and residents felt comfortable lecturing me on the difficulties of having children as a neurosurgeon. One attending even suggested I should ask my co-residents' permission before getting pregnant so as not to inconvenience them. I do not have children and have never indicated if I plan to have any. Truthfully, I do want children, but I would absolutely have foregone that to be a neurosurgeon. I wanted to be a neurosurgeon more than anything. But I was never asked: it was simply assumed that I would want to be a mother first. Purely because I'm a woman, my ambitions were constantly undermined, assumed to be lesser than those of my male peers. Women must want families, therefore women must be less committed. It was inconceivable that I might put my career first. It was impossible to disprove this assumption: what could I have done to demonstrate my commitment more than what I had already done by leading the interest group, taking a research year, doing a sub-I? My interest in neurosurgery would never be viewed the same way my male peers' was, no matter what I did. I would never be viewed as a neurosurgeon in the same way my male peers would be, because I, first and foremost, would be a mother. It turns out women don't even need to have children to be a mother: it is what you essentially are. You can't be allowed to pursue things that might interfere with your potential motherhood.

Furthermore, you are not trusted to know your own ambitions or what might interfere with your motherhood. I am an adult woman who has gone to medical school: I am well aware of what is required in reproduction, pregnancy, and residency, as much as one can be without experiencing it firsthand. And yet, it was always assumed that I had somehow shown up to a neurosurgery sub-I totally ignorant of the demands of the career and of pregnancy. I needed to be enlightened: always by men, often by childless men. Apparently, it was implausible that I could evaluate the situation on my own and come to a decision. I also couldn't be trusted to know what I wanted: if I said I wanted to be a neurosurgeon more than a mother, I was immediately reassured I could still have a family (an interesting flip from the dire warnings issued not five minutes earlier in the conversation). People could not understand my point, which was that I didn't care. I couldn't mean that, because women are fundamentally mothers. I needed to be guided back to my true role.

Because everyone was so confident in their sexist assumptions that I was less committed, I was not offered the same training, guidance, or opportunities as the men. I didn't have projects thrown my way, I didn't get check-ins or advice on my application process, I didn't get opportunities in the OR that my male peers got, I didn't get taught. I once went two whole days on my sub-I without anyone saying a word to me. I would come to work, avoid the senior resident I was warned hated trainees, figure out which OR to go to on my own, scrub in, watch a surgery in complete silence without even the opportunity to cut a knot, then move to the next surgery. How could I possibly become a surgeon in that environment? And this is all to say nothing of the rape jokes, the advice that the best way for a woman to match is to be as hot as possible, listening to my attending advise the male med students on how to get laid, etc.

At a certain point, it became clear it would be incredibly difficult for me to become a neurosurgeon. I wouldn't get research or leadership opportunities, I wouldn't get teaching or feedback, I wouldn't get mentorship, and I wouldn't get respect. I would have to fight tooth and nail for every single piece of my training, and the prospect was just exhausting. Especially when I also really enjoyed internal medicine, where absolutely none of this was happening and I even had attendings telling me I would be good at it (something that didn't happen in neurosurgery until I quit).

I've been told I should get over this, but I don't know how to. I don't know how to stop being mad about how thoroughly sidelined I was for being female. I don't know how to stop being bitter that my intelligence, commitment, and work ethic meant so much less because I'm a woman. I know I made the right decision to switch to internal medicine, and it probably would have been the right decision even if there weren't all these issues with the culture of neurosurgery, but I'm still so angry about how it happened.

[snowandstarlight]

why are all the surgeon characters in romance novels neurosurgeons? neurosurgeons are boring

[buffyspeak]

i'll say it. i'm a lexie grey stan and i like sl*xie okay but they had a lot of the same problems m*rder (another ship i'm fine with but don't adore and have Things To Say about) + Some Other Stuff without ever really getting to resolve any of it. also i hate that her last season story arc was almost exclusively about her pining after him and then she died.

[bakugoushotwife]

born sinner (part one)

pairing: crime boss!suguru geto x fem!surgeon!reader series content: blood, gore, realistic descriptions of surgery but like as accurate as someone with access to google has, angst, slow-burn, eventual smut, anxiety as a heavy theme, no curses!au, violence, guns, gang mentions and typical violence, religious imagery, etc. words: 8.5k a/n: omg omg happy new year! the gojo writer takes on suguru geto!! he's so challenging for me in the best of ways and i hope that his characterization is at least tolerable LMFAO!! i got this amazing idea from a gorgeously detailed outline from @antizenin who trusted me to bring her outline to life. i hope you love it!! part two //

the lights are entirely too bright in the meeting hall. it’s nothing compared to the lights in the OR that illuminate the vessels of a heart as you slice into it—finding the clot that caused the fourty-one year old mother of two to collapse in the middle of making breakfast. you saved her life, you save lives. you’re a cardiothoracic surgeon–and a top one at that, though you spent your residency flirting with general and neurosurgery, you ultimately landed on the heart of it all–literally. it was riveting work. it was satisfying work. you got to play god, holding the lives of everyone that came through the hospital doors in your hands. you got to be the one to repair the tear in their aorta, the one to physically pump their heart with your own grip. it was thrilling. until it wasn’t. until you couldn’t stop the bleeding or make the heart beat again. until being god of the emergency room meant sending some people to the afterlife, and realizing that you are no god. you’re just a woman with a degree and a scalpel and a crippling fear that you don’t know what you’re really doing at all.

that’s what got you here. the clock in front of you is just about the only thing to look at in this section of the hospital. the board meets here—the people that convene to discuss fates. it’s almost comically just that the long hallway before the meeting room was barren and hopeless–only the clock’s hands to tick loudly by in mock of you. 7:55 am. just five more minutes until you went from the god above it all to a simple beggar praying to be spared. you were no different from those you operated on. you’re suddenly very aware of how scratchy and hard your chair is, making you adjust and readjust to try to find some semblance of comfort in the last five minutes before judgment day. as a surgeon, you know just how out of whack your vitals are. as someone with a diazepam prescription, you know exactly what’s causing it, regardless of the MD at the end of your last name. shit, you forgot to take your pills again this morning—

there’s a faint sound of heels clicking against the cold tile floor in conjunction with the loud clunk, clunk, ding dong ding! of the clock that signals the top of the hour. it’s time. the secretary calls your name as if you’re not the only person waiting out here, and you nod without meeting her eyes. you know without lifting your gaze that hers is judgmental–like everyone’s lately. 

the problem with being god is that you can’t make mistakes without feeling the wrath of the people that once loved you and championed your name.

millions of thoughts race inside your head simultaneously: if you can’t handle the hardening stare of a measly secretary, how on earth would you be able to function under the eyes of the council, the real gods amongst men. they have the authority to revoke your license if you don’t figure out how to answer to them. the one case, the one incident, the one person’s life that ended because of your inability to handle such racing thoughts drives you to clutch at your chest now as you rise from your chair, back aching. 

“right this way.” she says without another glance, and you’re thankful for that reprieve. she turns, loud heels click clacking their way back down the hall at the same pace of your hammering heart. you love being a surgeon. you can’t lose that. you have to fight for it. saving lives is important to you! you just have to convey this. it’s not hard. swallow your fear and finally fight for something you want, put one foot in front of the other, you tell yourself. breathe in and breathe out—you have to get your sinus rhythm back to normal if you have any hope of getting through this. but it’s so hard when all your senses lie to you like this, the clock’s ticks still rattling across your brain—the long and dark hallway only stretching to be longer and darker before you. you know it’s impossible–just your mind playing tricks. or, more aptly, part of you knows that. but the other part starts to break out in a cold sweat once you finally approach the door. on the other side of the heavy oak were the group of people who would decide what your life was worth: do you get to stay a god amongst men, or will you be cast out like the devil himself? 

you can hear the different voices speaking in low whispers before the secretary has even pushed into the room. you know they must be speaking about you from the way their eyes dart all over your timid form in front of them as they shuffle their papers—reports of every mistake and triumph you’ve ever had laid out in front of them, reducing you to a datapoint. it’s a medical license hearing, but you feel like a freshly hit opossum standing before the vultures just waiting to pick your bones clean. maybe being roadkill was more freeing than this. 

this room is much darker than the lobby you waited in, dimly lit by reading lamps positioned to the right of each panelist–five total. three men and two women would decide if your mistake was enough to ruin your career. their desk towered above you, so much so you had to tilt your chin back to be able to take in their disgruntled, disappointed, and disapproving stares. your saliva feels like liquid cement when you go to swallow it down—though it tastes like bile.  

“good morning doctor.” the man on the furthest right says. he has the kindest eyes of them all, though your brain catches his deception. he’s just acting. the other panelists give you tight lipped smiles of greeting and head nods of acknowledgement. you clear your throat a little and give them a bow. 

“good morning, board of internal medicine. i’ve…prepared a statement?” you clench your jaw at the shakiness you can hear in your voice. it’s the older of the two women that nod at you this time. 

“you may present it.” she says, a drawn-on eyebrow raised expectantly. you swallow down that bile-cement flavored spit again, training your eyes on a hairline crack in the tile under your toe. it’s fitting. as time passes, this crack will widen and cause that tile to erode and crumble away. this meeting could be the crack in your foundation. the decision made here today could be the first domino of events to ruin the picture perfect life you’ve carefully put into place. 

“..hiroshi nakamura entered the emergency room on november twenty-third at 4:57 pm. he was suffering from an aortic aneurysm. as many of you are former surgeons yourselves, i know you’re familiar with the diagnosis. many of these go unnoticed. symptomatic pain is brushed off, and many times it’s too late to save them, the silent killer.” you shift your weight, doing your best to maintain eye contact despite the haunting memory. “nakamura-san was a patient of mine previously. he was diagnosed with arteriosclerosis three years prior, the exact date escapes me. it was in the summertime. july maybe. later that day i performed an endarterectomy to reduce the atheromatous plaque in his carotid artery. we kept him for the next three days for observation, his vitals improved and he was discharged with instructions to receive regular checkups. when he was brought back in…i knew immediately that the buildup must have returned, making it harder for blood to travel until it turned into a clot. when i opened him up, his pressure started dropping. he had an aortic dissection, which i’ve run into many times. but the size of nakamura-san’s was significant. i hesitated, deciding between a graft or a stent for treatment. i took too long to choose, and nakamura-san…bled out on the operating table.” you grimace, looking down at that cracked tile again. the line was shaped like a lightning bolt, its jagged curve leading straight under your shoe. you can feel your chest tighten, so you close your eyes and try to push back against the wave of emotion sitting in your throat. “i had to tell nakamura-san’s family what happened. his wife of forty years, his thirty-four year old son, thirty year old daughter, and twenty-eight year old son as well as his young grandchildren. i’ll never forget what my mistake has done to their lives, and i believe it is punishment enough.” 

you step back once you’ve finished speaking, heart still hammering away in your chest. the members of the board nod, seemingly unaffected by your words. the man in the middle of the massive mahogany table picks up his stack of papers, licking his forefinger before flipping through them. “how long have you been prescribed diazepam, doctor?” 

your blood stills. your anxiety was clearly well documented, and you knew it would be on their list of questions. “since i was a teenager, sixteen i believe.” 

he hums, eyes focused on the paper before him. “and how would you say it helps you manage your generalized anxiety disorder?” 

you would do anything for that ticking clock right about now, for this room is so quiet you swore they could hear your thoughts. “it helps considerably. i’ve stayed on it for over ten years now.”

“your prescription history is spotty. were you trying alternative therapies?” the younger woman asks, manicured red nails clutching your entire life between them via vulturous paper reports. 

you open your mouth to answer–no, argue–but realize that won’t help you anymore than the truth will. “no. i…had not.” 

she raises her brow just like the other woman did, except her eyebrow was real and also well taken care of. “so what happened? it seems like you’ve forgotten to pick up your medicine three times this year—one of which was during nakamura-san’s surgery?” you are a cardiothoracic surgeon, one that was considered proficient enough to pick her specialty. you are no fool. you can see the trap she’s laid before you even unmedicated. 

this is the end. all because of your busy schedule and long hours at the hospital. sometimes you missed pharmacy hours, other times you just forgot about it altogether, mind racing with diagnoses and cases that wait for you the next day. but that won’t matter now, you can feel it before you even answer. they knew what they were going to do before you ever walked in this room. “my business hours are usually reserved for saving lives at this hospital. sometimes i’m not able to make it to pickup.” 

“how long until your death toll matches that of your successes, doctor?” the final man at the left asks, punctuating their line of questioning. he shuffles the edges of his papers against the flat top he sits behind. “i think our decision has been reached. you’re no longer licensed to operate in this hospital or any other, effective immediately. take your medicine.” 

he has his doubts, but he supposes that is his nature. it feels strange to organize a meeting between two warring sides, hoping for a somewhat amicable and fortuitous outcome. hope is a foreign concept in this world, in suguru geto’s reality. he runs the west side of tokyo—keeping businesses running and funding local projects as well as controlling the streets with his biggest means of profit—guns for hire. he was a local historic monument. a ghost–everyone knew of him but pretended not to. everyone from bar owners to bakeries, lawyers and school teachers alike all under his influence, his pulse on the town. that’s how he knew the rival eastside head planned to make a move on his territory, and he’s been able to orchestrate a negotiation between them based on the opinion of his mentor and right hand man. 

traditionally, suguru would eliminate his problem at the source. there’s no need to play politics when you make your own rules. but he trusts wholly in his sacred few, the ones who have been with him since the beginning of his reign, and even before then. suguru’s best friend, satoru gojo was his best assassin and loudest mouth. choso kamo was a younger pup, but loyal and hardworking—very protective. and then there was toji fushiguro, the most valued of all. he’s shown suguru the ropes of this industry while still respecting and protecting him. geto entrusts his life to toji. if the man believes a meeting would be wise, then they’ll have the meeting. 

besides, there was no arguing with his logic. if they were able to pull this off, then his men will have free reign in the east, able to expand their territory into shinjuku, and have a working alliance with their only competition. so why was he having second thoughts? he blames satoru and his creepy blue eyes staring at him in the mirror he’s checking himself over in. 

“do you not trust me?” he asks the other man, tugging the top half of his too-long black hair into a neat knot. it reveals the long dragon tattoo that creeps up his neck, eyes glowing with anger at whoever looked. his own golden eyes flicker with unease as they survey the only person in the room. suguru hated how opinionated satoru could be at times, and valued it in others. though he usually didn’t know which way he felt until after the fact. 

the arctic-haired boy scoffed, kicking himself into stride from his previous position leaning against the wall. “oh i trust you. i just think it’s weird. i mean–toji’s so gung-ho, let’s slaughter ‘em all, and now we’re supposed to believe he’s become a diplomat?”

“i didn’t know you knew what diplomat meant.” suguru comments drily, sidestepping his friend’s critique of their teacher.

satoru shoves his round sunglasses back up his nose to conceal his eye roll. suguru was technically his boss—though he could get away with more than most. “hey, you asked. i just…have a bad feeling about this.” he shrugs–a knock at geto’s door causing both men to go on high alert immediately. satoru reaches for his weapon, always expecting an ambush. such is this way of life. 

“geto–sama, the car is ready.” the driver says from the other side of the wood, and satoru relaxes at the realization that it was just ijichi–a man so weak and cowardly that an ambush at his hands would be impossible. suguru releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding onto. he fastens the final button on his shirt, glancing over himself in the mirror once again. he wanted to appear polished and professional in his all black attire—and it worked. he seemed larger than life and as intimidating as ever. 

“perfect. i should get going.” he nods to his best friend–who, due to his abrasive and blunt nature, will not be attending this meeting. suguru adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves, strapping his guns to his torso and giving satoru a tight lipped smile. the latter gets the door for him, mockingly saluting. 

“i’ll hold down the fort until you get back, boss!” he chirps, nodding to ijichi before making his way back to the data room. 

toji meets them in the car. it’s a bulletproof black bronco, a fitting vehicle to cart around a high-profile crime boss. suguru’s confidence is bolstered at the sight of his most trusted companion, and he genuinely smiles as he ducks into the backseat with him. 

“hey kid, big day.” the older man says gruffly, his gravelly voice making it sound like he were sixty years his senior instead of a mere fifteen. suguru was no child, and didn’t appear to be one either. the twenty-eight year old man towered over six feet, thick with muscle and riddled with scars of experience, but to toji—suguru was a helpless kitten. 

suguru hums, eyes already scanning for potential danger as the car rolls out of the garage. “big day indeed. you’ve spoken to him already this morning?”

toji claps his broad hand down on suguru’s even broader shoulder, chuckling. “we wouldn’t be headin’ out if i hadn’t. sukuna’s ready for us.” he assures, noting how strong and steady suguru looked. toji was proud, geto has grown quite bit from the scrappy little boy he once was. if he was nervous, he was keeping that close to his chest. 

“good. i think he’ll find my proposal beneficial for us both.” he nods, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. sukuna’s crew mostly pushed petty crime and even pettier drugs—suguru’s bunch could elevate their product and offer more riches for the notoriously greedy ‘cursed king’ ryomen sukuna. 

toji snorts a little, amused by his arrogance. “let’s hope so.” he nods, checking the rearview and windows before they fall into silence. 

the ride is smooth due to the expensive tires and ijichi’s careful nature, leaving geto plenty of peace and quiet to brainstorm all of the ways this could go down. he’s doing a genuine good for japan–sure, he has to break a few laws to do it, but the people of tokyo—well, his half anyway—are prospering. he hopes that even the arrogant man that ryomen is can see what banding together would do for them both. then, it could be just a matter of time before he can branch out into the rest of japan. 

there’s that word again. hope. he feels silly each time he catches himself using it. it’s akin to faith to him. something ideal in entirety, hardly true to the touch. he only believes in what he can see–things like optimism and god are lost on him, they are only fantasies. 

“ijichi! watch the right side—” toji commands gruffly, sitting up straighter in his seat to get a better look. suguru is grounded with a shot of adrenaline, leaning over to peer at the black suv hot on their tails. this highway is busy—civilians in their own cars without a clue in the world littered all over the roads at various speeds. it could be nothing–except geto knows better than to hope that the tinted windows on the car were meant to block out the sun instead of concealing identities. the large suv switches into the left lane, speeding up to catch them. “idiot! step on it!” he calls, and suguru draws one of his guns to be prepared ahead of time, a lesson he learned from the man sitting to his right. 

“is it one of sukuna’s?” he asks aloud, cocking his .45 as the first shots ring out from the vehicle beside them. they bounce right off his armored car, but one knicks the tire. geto curses under his breath, cracking the window enough to pop off a few returning shots of his own. the cadillac is impenetrable too–though he had hoped to flatten one of their tires in return or even get one under the hood. 

ijichi starts to lose control on the vehicle as the tire blows—just the metal rim scraping against the concrete with a deafening hiss. the bronco starts to fishtail, the car beside them only furthering the inevitable by nudging the rear quarter panel into the median ahead. “i’m losing it! we’re gonna flip!” ijichi cries out in panic, prompting suguru’s eyes to widen. 

there’s a loud crunch of metal on concrete before they’re airborne. geto feels a sense of finality wash over him as they turn, his seatbelt the only thing keeping him from breaking his neck. there’s another gross sounding scrape of the driver’s side scraping on the road briefly before they rotate again—heartbeat erratic. this is it. all of his hard work would end in a fiery car accident. he can’t even feel it as his head bounces off the window, only thinking about how satoru was right. he should have appreciated his friend more—he’s probably the only person who will mourn him when he’s gone. the roof caves in when they fall onto it this time, shrapnel scratching his face and making him realize they had stopped. they’re on their back–he’s hanging upside down, but he’s alive. he can smell oil and gas and the inevitable smell of fire, so his numb fingers fumble for the seatbelt’s release button. the car alarms are going off—and he knows if he doesn’t get out soon, the relief of being alive won’t even have time to sink in before it’s ripped away again. he looks around the car—toji’s door ripped off in the accident and his body nowhere to be seen. 

“goddammit–” he growls, clicking the button on his seatbelt over and over, unable to get free. there’s a million alarms going off—the car’s sensors, the airbags, the bitter hum of gunshots ringing in his ears still, maybe even faint police sirens heading this way. none as loud as the one in his head telling him that he had to get out soon–fighting until the button finally releases him and he lands with a thud on the sunroof portion of the now mangled bronco. he crawls toward the only exit, toji’s exit, grimacing at the sickening sound of crunching glass digging into his side as he drags himself through it. he thought dying would be more peaceful—that he would be ready for it, even if he hadn’t finished his work yet. in this business, there is no tomorrow, yet he found himself fighting for one. this wouldn’t be the end of him, some sort of voice in the back of his head told him so. it wasn’t his own, in fact he didn’t recognize it—but it made him take the pain and push forward, out of the car and onto the street beside. 

the sunset would be prettier under better circumstances, but he’s grateful to see it irregardless. his head hurts, and he can’t look around as fast as he wants to without getting dizzy, that ringing deafening his senses. he sees the cadillac–still on the scene– with a group of men huddled outside of it talking. 

he sputters out a cough, clearing his lungs of some of the debris he’s inhaled. it catches their attention—and all geto can process is a pair of dark boots stomping over rubber scraps and glass shards until they’re inches from his face and the legs attached are squatting down to get a better look at him. 

“eh, shoulda known you’d survive it if i did.” he grumbles, a voice so unmistakable suguru’s blood stills in his veins. the sole of the man’s boot shoves into suguru’s shoulder, kicking him to his back. “you trust too much kid. why would sukuna negotiate when he could just take from you instead? shame. you coulda been great.” he says, fumbling behind his back for a 9mm piece, the sobering click of the safety and familiar cock of the gun clearing out all the other noises. geto’s too devastated to speak—though he knows there’s nothing he could say. he lived through the accident just to die with the truth: his mentor betrayed him. 

bang!

getting shot doesn’t feel like you think it does. it’s white hot and instant, a blistering intensity that tells you you're dying. suguru’s hand flies to cover the damage to his chest, eyes wide in disbelief still. he must have already died and gone to hell. he can’t hear anything now but the ringing of the gun and toji’s sigh. 

“meh–just to be sure.” toji yawns, scratching his head with the barrel before turning it back to suguru’s chest. 

bang!

it hurts to breathe, but he has to gasp for air either way—bleeding out on the pavement below. the ringing in his ears is replaced by tires spinning out—signifying that the rival crew had left before the cops could arrive. suguru holds his crimson soaked hand up above his face, clenching his jaw. the pain was hitting him in waves, the clawing feeling of glass embedded in his skin mixed with the burn of being shot, the inability to take a deep breath and his growing weakness, he really was dying this time. 

no. 

that voice again. he’s annoyed by it, but intrigued. why? why not give up? he asks himself, coughing despite the excruciating pain it puts him in and the wetness that seeps out of his mouth—something even he knows is blood. 

there’s so much life to live. fight. revenge, love. there’s more for you. 

he stares up at the pale outline of the moon hanging in the sky, growing brighter as the sky darkened. revenge. that was something he’d like to see. he didn’t know about the rest of it–but was confused by this…guardian angel of his. is this god? he was a born sinner—far away from anything holy. this must be an imagination of his—yet it was motivating enough to get him to move again. they wrecked just outside of harajuku. he knew of a dive bar under his business portfolio that he could try to get to–he could hang on until satoru found him and got him to the hospital, though that was a whole new set of problems. he had to get moving, the ringing of sirens getting closer by the second. 

his vision is blackening and he doesn’t even know how close he is to the bar. his breathing is ragged, everything screaming and aching, body telling him to give up but that voice urging him to keep going. night has settled in fully by now, and he’s thankful for that cover. this area of town is avoided by anyone with good intentions, hence its emptiness at this hour. it couldn’t be too late, 8 pm at the latest, but the only traffic moving through this district are giggly college students and no good drug pushers meeting up with customers in the dark. but it’s reassuring to him, it means he’s getting closer. that’s when the reminiscing hits him. he’s able to see some bright flashing lights—a telltale sign that the bar was just ahead. the shelter of the alleyway gives him some reprieve. maybe if he stops just stopped for a second to catch his breath he’d be able to get to his feet and walk inside, or just getting a phone call in would be enough to save him. he thinks about satoru, how he’d come running as soon as he picked up the phone all while cursing him out for not listening to his warnings sooner. he feels embarrassed that the only person he has to think about is his sarcastic best friend, left to wonder if things would be better or worse if he had a family to think about instead. the last thing he thinks about is that mysterious voice calling out to him to stay awake—but his body is done fighting. all is black. 

what better way to end the worst day of your life than getting shitty at the shittiest bar in town? there were probably lots of better options, like conserving your money since you didn’t know where your next source of income would stream from—but that was tomorrow’s problem. tonight’s problem was drinking your sorrows away next to the attractive man buying all your drinks. he was tall and his hair was spiky to look at but you knew it would be soft to the touch–or maybe that’s the vodka talking. his smile was more akin to a smirk rather than a genuine grin. he was trouble. but trouble was buying, so you’d keep batting you lashes and whining about your sorrows so the shots kept coming. the top-shelf vodka the man offers each time is working to its desired effect, numbing the ache in your heart and the bickering thoughts in your brain. it almost cloaks the mildew scent in the air—rose-colored glasses making the nasty blue carpet and hideous wood paneled walls of the bar look like a dream come true. you finally feel light. you almost forget about the man eyeing you like a predator in wait to your left, consciousness floating high in the clouds. 

you used to hate drinking. as a surgeon, you need a clear mind at all times. who knew when you’d be called in for an emergency case. well, needed. plus, you’ve always been an angry drunk, overly emotional and yelling constantly. it wasn’t a pleasant sight. not to mention the hangovers, ugh—your long-term psyche had always beaten out the short-term pleasure, but tonight you owed it to yourself to feel as bas as possible tomorrow. that’s why the clouds clear—your light-hearted joy short-lived as the bartender slides you another shot before muttering. 

“that’s your last one, doctor.” he tilts his head down, used to serving your fellow surgeon friends when you did have a well-timed night off, though he’s never seen you drunk as the most responsible member of your group, you were always designated driver. not anymore, you’d be lucky to get a text back from any of them now that you were disbarred. maybe that’s what actually makes you mad instead of being cut off. it’s the realization of all the things you’ve really lost–-including the right to drown your sorrows out with a swollen liver. 

“what the fuck?? and i know ya heard me talkin’...not a doctor anymore!! so let me have my vodka, i deserve it!” you whine, stretching your upper body over the scratched and chipped wooden bar keeping you from jumping across at his dumb stupid fat neck—

“no can do, miss. you’re over served as is, ‘s my job on the line.” he shakes his head, eyeing the man next to you to get you under control, assuming he knew you better than a few hours of tipsy talking. you scoff at his insinuations–both that you’re too drunk to handle yourself and that this wallet has any sway over your motor-mouth. 

“don’t look at him—fucking look at me! i’ll kick your goddamn ass, you know that?” you’re fuming. this is the proverbial straw that broke the hypothetical camel’s back. after the day you’ve had, you’re surprised it took this much to get you this rowdy. how much was one person meant to take anyways? venting out your anger would help you plenty, you think to yourself as you lift your knee up, prepared to crawl over that wooden plank saving that man’s life. 

“security!! come get ‘er. she’s wasted.” he scoffs, taking your shot away and making your blood boil even more. “they’ll get an uber for ya. take it easy, doc.” he shakes his head, making you feel remarkably judged all of a sudden, every eye in the place was on you as a guard even bigger than the man next to you drags you off the bar as carefully as he can. you don’t make it easy, kicking and screaming out despite the burning sensation in your cheeks.

“you’re scared of a girl? that’s fucking embarrassing!” you bellow to cloak your own, getting tossed on your feet gently— outside of the dingy building. 

“come on, little lady. let’s get you a ride home.” the security guard says, another one of them making their way outside as some sort of backup–like you were some genuine threat. you scoff, folding your arms. 

“fuck off—don’t need your shitty help, i’ll get home on my own!” you kick his shin, throwing your hair over your shoulder before marching off into the dead of night. 

in one of the worst parts of town. 

the cold shocks you awake, the fear putting you on edge and pushing back the drunkenness that fought so hard to claim you. every rustle of the bushes, each twig snapping has your head on a swivel. you just need to make it to your car, though it was daytime when you foolishly parked it a few doors down to avoid the traffic of drunk people leaving later in the evening. you’ve already made half the distance, the connecting alleyway just up ahead. 

you don’t make it two hundred feet before everything hits you again—and you’re bawling at your own stupidity. you should have made time to pick up your pills. you wouldn’t have to be worried about being kidnapped or murdered in the middle of the night if you had just taken your medicine. your life if over—and you couldn’t blame anyone but yourself. you’re a mess. you’re nearly gasping for breath already—the dark alley mocks you with long shadows reflecting from the moon and stray cats that hop out of the dumpster just to make you fear the worst. you wipe at your cheeks, desperately sniffling to try to regain your senses, eyes aching from the downpour. you’re constantly looking over your shoulder to make sure you’re not being followed, entirely too focused on what’s behind you to notice the log in front of you—you’re sent flying over it and towards the pavement. luckily you take the impact on your shoulder, nothing more than a shocked, “ow–” leaving your lips before you realize you’re not hurt at all thanks to your coat absorbing the brunt of it.

it’s just another strike of your famous luck then, something annoying enough to inconvenience you on a day chock full of them, but not enough to take you down. you push to your hands and knees, looking back towards the offending log—only to realize it’s breathing and has long dark hair strewn about its head. you gasp–the fog muddying up your senses clearing instantly at the realization that this was no log, but some severely injured man! you can hear his struggling breaths, springing into action immediately. it’s nearly second nature to you as you push his hair out of his face and away from his neck. it’s much too dark for you to make out specifics–but his chin shines with something you can only imagine is blood, the same wet liquid pooling in front of his torso, the man laying on his side in an almost fetal position.  

“sir–can you hear me?” you try, placing your fingers where his heartbeat should be. it’s weak and much too slow, but it’s there. you can save him. “sir what happened to you? what’s your name?” you ask loudly, trying to get him to wake up. you groan when he doesn’t respond, blindly fumbling around for the wounds. your heart is racing, any slowness from the alcohol was killed by the adrenaline consuming you now. you gasp out again when you feel glass shards and bullet holes, a good fifteen minutes away from home even if you step on it. you’re not sure if this man has fifteen minutes left in him—the reasonable part of your brain telling you to call the emergency line to get him helped. though, they’d take just as long to show up despite how serious his wounds are. “you’re gonna have to help me a little, big guy.” you groan even louder, trying to put him on his back. it would jostle him less and was the only shot you had at getting a man of his size back to your vehicle on your own. 

you swear you hear him chuckle, but perhaps you were still a bit tipsy. you grab his hands, trying to be careful of the one riddled with glass, situating them in your own at the best leverage point. you’re strong—you can do this. you need to feel useful again–and this man needs to be saved. he’s so heavy, nothing but dead weight as you tug him along behind you. you have to bend a little and pray that your legs can make it to your car, just a final push to get to safety. 

you’re grateful when you see your mom-mobile waiting for you. this was your ambulance, and you were running out of time and the strength to keep pulling, gnawing nervously on your lip. what if he died anyway? what if you couldn’t save him at all, and were only chasing highs you’d never feel again? 

no. you’re skilled. if you couldn’t save this man then… the truth was that no one could. so determination overrides your anxiety for the time being, and you pop the trunk of your sporty suv, looking down at the man with a heart sigh. “okay–i can do it. what are ya, 200, 220?” you muse, squatting down and fixing him over your shoulders as best you could—a fireman’s carry of sorts. your hips and thighs should support you more than your exhausted arms, so you heave up with a strangled grunt. you throw him in a little harder than intended, grimacing. “sorry!” you huff, circling to your driver’s side. at least he’s in, even if your arms are jello and you know you’ll have to get him in the house somehow. you aren’t even thinking about how his blood will stain your tan interior—the rush of saving a life quieting any background noise in your mind. “you gotta hang in there. hang in there, please.” you mumble, weaving through traffic. 

you back up as close to your garage as possible, trying to think ahead for anything that could make this easier on yourself. you throw the car in park, hurrying to get him out of the back. he’s running out of time, and a surgical god you may be–but there’s only so many miracles you can call in. you get him in the same hold from earlier yet you let his feet touch the ground, muscles burning at the exercise. you have to breathe in short bursts, crushed by his heaviness, adrenaline helping you accomplish something you normally wouldn’t be capable of. you stumble with him, still half dragging him. it’s a battle you’re worried you might lose, but you get him on your dining room table, splayed out like a gurney. then you’re prepping your OR, getting the lights on, all the tools and dressings you would need, and most importantly—scrubbing in. infection would kill him if you weren’t careful now. 

“you stumbled into the right hands, mister. or well…i guess i stumbled over you–but you get the point.” you roll your eyes at yourself and glove up, stretching the vinyl over your fingers and flexing them, all part of your pre-op routine. you get your first good look at him then. he’s terribly hurt, it really is even worse than you thought. bullet holes and all this blunt trauma–he must have endured something horrific. but beneath all the bruising marring his olive skin, you can tell that he’s a beautiful man. his inky hair gleams under your bright dining room lights, somehow looking silky despite the tangles bunched up throughout the mane. you sigh, turning your attention to the blood soaked shirt he had on–two perfectly round entrance piercing his front, but no exit wounds. in his case, it was probably saving his life, those bullets possibly lodged in important arteries—scary, but better than bleeding out. he’s already lost quite a bit of blood–and it’s not like you have any history on him to know what type he is. there’s no time to worry about tests–you’d have to get your emergency stash of o negative. it was universal–your own blood that you kept on hand in case of the worst. it looks like this is it. you flawlessly install the iv, watching the slow stream shoot through the clear iv catheter and into his body. it helps with his paleness after a few minutes, and you smile in relief. this was a good sign. you rip his shirt with the last remaining strength you’ve got left, buttons flying to expose extremely bruised ribs and those gaping bullet wounds. “this isn’t gonna feel great, i’m sorry.” you grab your cheap bottle of house vodka, taking another shot from it to steady your nerves before pouring a decent amount over his chest. “i have to get in here—i’m happy you can’t feel it–now, anyway.” you take a deep breath and reach for your scalpel. you decide to perform a sternotomy—cutting between his breast plate to the web of arteries beneath. “i can see the bullets. you’re gonna make it.” you whisper, more encouragement for yourself than for him. your retractors keep his chest open for you wide enough for you to get your forceps in, aiming to pull out a bullet out of a vein close to his heart. “it missed the aorta. you’re actually really lucky.” you chuckle humorlessly.

you wedge your forceps in and take a deep breath. it’s not the aorta, but it will spew blood anyway. “not my preferred method of grafting—no catheters here but. i gotta fix it somehow.” you growl a little in annoyance. you have to squint and move slowly, but you’re able to repair the first leak with a shifty little graft. you’re onto the next one, dropping the offending metal into a bowl—complete with a little clink. “we’ll get you to the hospital just to check my work, yeah?” you sigh, hoping that this would be good enough to save his life. your hands steady over the second bullet, and you repeat the same motions as before. you’re relieved at the sight of his heart literally beating underneath your working hands, knowing that he’s still fighting for his life. you remove the second one and get out of his body—sewing up his chest, letting the blood bag refill his own supply until the bag is drained. you push some saline to clean out the line before hanging a bag of morphine, the pain this mystery man would wake up to would be excruciating. 

once you’re done with the intense life-saving measures, you sit in a chair to pluck the glass from his skin and apply ointments to the road rash on his face and arms. it takes another hour or so of work, but you don’t mind. it’s strangely relaxing to feel like you’re doing your job, and it’s so rewarding when you check his pulse every ten minutes to find it getting stronger and stronger. you hate that you hadn’t invested in a stat monitor, having to check his blood pressure the old fashioned way, but that looked like it was perking up too. you grin, proud of yourself. losing your license didn’t mean you lost your touch. you decide to get the glass and rubble out of his hair, pulling it back away from his face for a second time tonight. you take another lengthy look at the man you’ve saved, still grimacing at the ugly bruises and scrapes when something else catches your eye. the man had several tattoos that seemed unremarkable at first, different dark lines tangling into patterns you didn’t recognize. but the dragon creeping from his collarbone to peek over the collar of his shirt—it’s a yakuza trademark. this man wasn’t a poor soul caught up in a tragic accident—this was a dangerous man. you just saved the life of a war-monger, countless lives ended due to his line of work. part of you wants to open his chest back up and make your grafts fail—but the other part of you wants to feel the success course through your veins when he wakes up. besides, what makes a surgeon and what makes a gang lackey? is it a good childhood? morals? options? who’s to say this man had killed anyone? god knows you wouldn’t want to be judged based off of a few sneak peeks. you sigh, piddling off to your room to get him some new clothes. 

it’s invasive, changing a stranger. but you’re at fifth base already right? saving his life gave you a get out of jail free card, even if he was in the most dangerous crime syndicate in japan. you get his matted jeans off, making yourself look up at the ceiling in modesty and respect. you shimmy the plaid pajama pants up his body–thankful that your ex never came back for his stuff. you decide against wrestling a shirt around all the bandages on his arms and chest—knowing you could hurt him just as much as you’ve helped. you decide to try your luck one last time, pushing your table the short distance to your living room to let him rest on something more comfortable than the cold marble slab. it’s an easy shove to get him onto the couch, and you finally take a deep breath and sigh it all out. success is sweet–surgery is exhausting. you pull a little blanket over him, setting hourly alarms to check on your patient until he wakes. 

he wakes up to the smell of something cooking. the light pouring in from the curtain makes him squint–definitely a sharp adjustment from the darkness that consumed him before. he hears a woman humming a few rooms away, only furthering his confusion. he didn’t die? but how…he didn’t call anyone, and he knows no one in that area would willingly bring the sirens in to help him–and where exactly was he? all of these things hit him at once, but nothing harder than the deep ache in his bones. he couldn’t describe it, something so sharp and throbbing he could hardly get his body to obey his mind’s orders to move. 

sitting up is pure hell. every red flag and stop sign goes off, making him grunt in agony. but he knows he has to get going–get out of whatever trap he’s got himself into. he doesn’t recognize the room–for all he knows, sukuna’s men followed him and have him here to torture. 

but that woman’s voice, he knows it. that doesn’t mean this isn’t a trap still. the humming stops, and footsteps pad closer until a bright face pokes into the room, an ‘o’ shape forming on her face before she enters–complete with a plate of food. 

“you’re awake–” you gasp in surprise. you had just come to do your rounds, deciding that eating with him would help you better watch out. you weren’t expecting him to already be up and at ‘em, he must be very strong. though you still notice how rigid he’s holding himself. “you really should lie down, you…” he cranes his sore neck, flashing you a glimpse of that black ink. you suddenly remember just how dangerous he is, and he looks like a dog backed into a corner, narrow black eyes sizing you up—distrust all over his feline features. 

“who do you work for?” he tilts his head to one side, and your brows furrow in confusion, oh–he was worried you worked for a rival. you shake your head, eager to defend yourself. 

“n-no one, no one right now!” you blurt out, anxiously shifting your weight foot to foot. you look down at the breakfast in your hands, holding it out for him to take instead. “here! eat, as a sign of my goodwill.” 

he analyzes the plate, then looks back up at you–peacocking his shoulders back and hissing at the pain the stretch brought him. now you know just how weak he is—and he can’t make another target out of himself. “i hope you know i will have you killed if you’re lying.” 

despite the way his glare makes your skin crawl and the hair at the base of your neck stand up, you can’t help but laugh at that. “i wouldn’t lie. i saved your life, why would i waste my time?” you shove the plate out further, basically putting it in his hands–one still heavily bandaged from dragging himself through the wreckage. 

he takes the plate from you. if he’s shocked by that, he doesn’t show it. he only watches you as he eats your food, grunting in pain every so often. you took the iv out while he slept, not sure how he’d react when he woke up to wires. “i uh…i have medicine…for the pain.” 

“who are you?” he returns without a second passing. he takes another reluctant bite of food, stomach growling in thanks. 

you tell him your name, stealing a few glances at the heavy furrow of his brow. “you were badly hurt. i am a doctor..so i helped repair what i could. you should recover. i imagine you need to lay low?” you ask with a raised brow, betraying your intellect. he knows you must have some idea of who he is. “you can stay here as long as you need. you might want to shower–but you’ll…probably need some help.” 

his expression shifts before your very eyes. his clenched jaw and steel brow relaxes into a soft look of…gratitude? truthfully, he was baffled. a doctor stumbled upon him, realized that he’s a criminal, saved him anyway—and now offers her home? he almost worries about how naive you really must be—but he owes you a debt he can never repay. you have given him a second chance—made revenge possible when he had given up completely. “thank you, little ebi. i will take up your gracious offer.” he nods, smiling kindly. 

you smile, heart going awol inside your chest. it was the right thing to do, he was injured and needed to be cared for. you’re a doctor who suddenly has a lot of time on her hands. it means nothing–but that you still have empathy left in you. you know you’re close to shaking, but you turn to leave before it can show. “i’ll grab you a change of clothes. don’t move too much until i get back.” you hum, and he hums in acknowledgement. 

he’s rather polite for a yakuza, his refined calmness even in the most dire of situations rubs off on you easily—you hold your head high as you pilfer through the tote of clothes your ex left behind, trying to find something for the big scary man in the living room. you finally decide on a plain black t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. you even nab some of those painkillers you offered earlier, hoping to ease that stiffness he carries himself with to mask his suffering. 

but when you get back to the living room the only thing waiting for you is the empty breakfast plate and a few hundred dollar bills—your curtains blowing in the harsh wind. your heart sinks for an unknown reason, and you tell yourself it’s because your patient wasn’t dressed for the cold.

[illdowhatiwantthanks]

Could you maybe do possessive Amelia Shepherd with a strap on, where she gets jealous of someone talking to reader, drags reader to an oncall room and takes what’s hers. Xoxo

You're Mine

Amelia Shepherd x fem!reader Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, NSFW, established relationship, sex, strap-on, dominance, some explicit language (let me know if I've missed anything!) Word Count: 1.1k

Summary: A misogynistic new surgeon has all the women residents on their toes, and it seems the only way to beat out the boys for surgeries is by flirting. But your girlfriend, Amelia, does not like it. She takes it upon herself to remind you just who you belong to.

You sprinted through the halls of Grey-Sloan, rushing to answer a page to the neuro unit. You hoped against hope for a surgery–any surgery. Neuro wasn’t your specialty but, at this point, you’d take anything.

You’d spent the better half of the morning flirting and sucking up to Dr. Wooten–the cardiothoracic surgeon who was filling in for Teddy while she was on parental leave. You couldn’t stand him–none of the women could. He clearly favored the male residents, and was known to trade sexual favors for surgery. You weren’t interested in any sexual favors, but he didn’t know that. And flirting was harmless. He was an extraordinarily hairy man, and every time you got a glimpse of chest hair poking out the collar of his scrubs, you were reminded of how very, very gay you were.

Nevertheless, you’d turned on the charm as best you could, but it had all been for nothing. Despite kissing his ass all day, he’d once again pulled one of the male residents in for an emergency thoracotomy. This page to neuro was your last hope for a surgery before you hit too many hours and had to go home.

But when you reached the neuro floor, there didn’t seem to be any emergencies. No emergent situations. No one even to say, “Oh, Y/N! Good, you’re here.” You checked the page again to be sure you’d gotten the instructions right:

Neuro. NOW. Urgent. –AS

The AS was for Amelia Shepherd, Chief of Neurosurgery. She was also Amelia Shepherd, your girlfriend, but you both had a strict no-personal-stuff-on-pagers rule. If she’d paged you, it was for work. And if Amelia said it was urgent, it was urgent.

You poked around a few doorways, glanced in a few rooms, asked if anyone had seen her at the nurse’s station. You’d just been about to give up and at least watch Dr. Wooten’s surgery, when a hand shot out of a doorway and grabbed your scrubs.

“Ow!” you exclaimed, more out of surprise than injury, as Amelia jerked you into an on-call room and slammed you into the door, reaching behind you to lock it.

You didn’t even have time to question why you were there before her lips were on yours. She kissed you hard, so hard it almost hurt. And the force with which she held you there, hands on your waist–you knew you’d have bruises tomorrow.

“Amy,” you groaned, when she came up for air. “The pagers are for surgery, not sex!”

“That was before,” she said, yanking your pants down.

“Jesus Christ!” you exclaimed, blushing. “Before what!?”

Despite your confusion, you could already feel yourself getting aroused. It didn’t take much with Amelia. It never did.

“I saw you,” she said, accusingly, making you gasp as she ran her fingers through your folds. “Flirting with that cardio surgeon.”

“Wooten!?” you said, laughing a little, then wincing as Amelia sank her teeth into your pulse point. “Honey. He’s a pig. I’m just trying to get on a surgery.”

“I don’t like it when you fuck with other surgeons,” she seethed, kneading your breasts in her hands, a mixture of pain and pleasure.

“I’m not fucking with anyone but you,” you protested. Amelia heaved in front of you, her face a mixture of anger and jealousy and, beneath it all, fear.

“Prove it,” she said, pulling down her own pants to reveal a thick, purple strap-on.

You startled. “Did you wear a strap to work?!”

“No talking,” she said, turning you around and shoving you into the wall face-first. You whimpered as she traced the strap over your entrance, teasing you. “The only thing I want to hear from you is who you belong to.”

You rolled your eyes. Who knew Dr. Amelia Shepherd was so insecure? She shoved herself into you without warning and you gasped, squirming and trying to adjust to the feeling of her inside you. But Amelia didn’t give you any time. She started thrusting into you, her hips ramming into your ass again and again. It was just the right amount of painful to drive you over the edge and you felt yourself pushing back, eager to feel Amelia deeper and deeper inside of you.

“Who do you belong to?” Amelia asked, her voice rough with lust and effort.

“You,” you whined, reaching down to circle your clit with your fingers.

“Again.”

“You.”

“That’s right,” she confirmed, grabbing onto your hips and pulling you toward her for more friction. “Who else makes you feel this good?”

You moaned. It was getting harder and harder to form coherent thoughts, let alone words. “Only you,” you whimpered.

Amelia could tell you were about to come, could hear your ragged breathing, feel the way you pressed into her harder and harder. She grabbed your hair and tugged and you cried out. “Amy, I’m gonna come!"

“You’re mine,” Amelia hissed, her breath hot in your ear as you tumbled over the edge, legs shaking, bracing yourself against the wall. “Say it.”

You covered your mouth with your hands in an effort to stifle your moans and whimpers; you were all too aware that the on-call rooms weren’t sound proof. You felt another stab of pleasure shoot through you as Amy tugged your hair once more, placing an open-mouthed kiss on your cheek. You heaved and shook, and she held you up, strong arms around your waist.

“I’m yours, Amy,” you heaved, wiping sweat from your forehead. “I’m only yours, you know that.”

You turned around to look at her, and you saw that she still looked scared, almost sad. You placed a hand on her cheek and leaned in to meet her eyes. “Amy. It’s only you for me, okay? You don’t need to worry.”

“You’re mine,” she whispered, leaning her forehead on your shoulder. It was halfway between a question and a statement.

“I’m yours,” you confirmed, running a hand through her hair, and she let out a shaky sigh. You chuckled a little as she melted into you. “Next time just say you’re jealous.”

She swatted at your arm, but beamed at you, leaning in for one more kiss.

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly, undoing the strap.

“Well, I’m certainly not.” You smirked, pulling your pants back up. You placed a kiss on the corner of Amelia’s mouth, grinning. “I gotta get back to my actual job. See you later, Dr. Shepherd. Thanks for the break.”

[uspdude051]

Hi, can I request a Derek shepherd X male reader? I have an idea you can use, maybe Derek broke up with Meredith after being together for like two months, after one month he starts liking the reader (can the reader be the same level as him? Not an intern) and after one month of Derek trying he and the reader start dating and one day all the interns find them cuddling (can the reader be little spoon pls) and they are in shock and kinda confused

Im sorry if it's a bad idea, I just want a story with him

Sleep and Confusion

A/N: sooo. This person requested this over two years ago and I felt bad….this is once every blue moon lol

TW: Fluff and bad grammar :)

Set in Season 4 when Meredith and Derek Broke up

It has been a few months since I got the job as The New Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery. You had a job as a Mass Gen as a regular attending, but the Chief of Surgery, Richard Webber, offered you the job and you decided to take the job right away. You liked Seattle even though the constant rain annoyed the hell out of you. Over time you manage to make a few friends. It's mostly the heads of the surgical department and a few residents like Bailey and Callie.

You just finished your shift and decided to hang out at Joe’s, when you got there you sat down at the bar at the far end. When you ordered your usual drink you turned to the left and saw Derek Shepherd, the head of neurosurgery, was drinking alone. You decided to have some small talk since you didn't know him that well. You knew of him, like how his nickname is McDreamy and he had a previous relationship with one of the 1st years.

You went over to sit next to him and asked,” Hey, how are you doing?”

He turned to look at you and was surprised I was talking to him. He answered, “You're doing well, yourself.”

You nodded in response. Joe gave you your drink and the two of you started to have some small talk. It was mostly regarding other interests, what's your favorite sports team, where you go to college, all that stuff.

Then you decided to ask something that would be a little awkward to answer.

“So… what's the deal with you and that one resident?” you asked. You notice that he and Meredith steal glances every chance they get.

He looked at you debating whether or not to answer, “We had a relationship when she was in the 1st year” He paused “We tried to work it out but unfortunately, we couldn’t.”

“Sorry about that, it must have been hard,” you said with sincerity.

He looked down at his drink and replied, “Yeah…..yeah it was, but I'm starting to move on.”

A part of you was relieved that he was getting over the heartbreak that he is experiencing but another part of you made you feel bad for the dude and wondered what you do to help. 

Ever since that night at Joe’s, you and Derek’s friendship has grown even more. You guys talk whenever you have a break. It was a good friendship, a little brotherhood friendship. It was going great until your feelings towards Derek grew to the point where you started to grow romantic feelings. But you decided to act against it for two reasons. 1) you didn't know if he wasn't straight and 2) you were pretty sure he was still hung up with the 2-year resident. You decided to compress those feelings because you didn't want to mess up your newfound friendship with Derek. 

Then one day you and Derek were both alone changing in the attending room after a very long day of back-to-back surgeries. He was leaning against the locker right to yours while you were just finished changing into your regular clothing. You were gonna ask if you wanted to head to Joe's to watch the game. But Derek beat you to the question but the difference was that he asked you something that completely shocked you. 

“Go out with me tomorrow night,” Derek said so subtly.

You slammed the locker door hard and stared into his blue eyes. Your own eyes widened at the question. You normally don't judge a book by its cover, but you would have never thought he was into dudes

“ Are you playing a trick with me or is this some kind of joke?” you asked. You were very wary about the guys you dated because most of the guys you've dated were assholes or straight dudes trying to get a laugh at you.

Derek said quickly “I'm not!!!...it's just you for the past month you were by my side with a lot of you… and I really, REALLY, think we have a connection.” 

As he said that his words started to slow down and started to seem more sincere. You ask him whether or not he was straight. You assumed he was Bi or Pan at least considering he had an ex-wife and his last relationship was Meredith. He explained that he’s bisexual and that he had two boyfriends before he started dating Addison.

You were still hesitant because your last relationship ended with your boyfriend cheating on you with his co-worker. He could tell by your facial expressions that you were very hesitant. He took your hand looked into your eyes and said this

“I promise I'm not gonna be like the other guy, if you want to take things slow that's fine,  all that I'm asking for is one dinner, and that's it.”

You could tell that he was being genuine, again you were a little hesitant. But then again he wasn’t like the other dude. Derek is kind, smart, and charismatic, all of the great qualities in a man that you were into.

So you looked into his dreamy eyes and said, “Yes, I would love to.”

2 months later.

It was a long day In the OR and you wanted to lie down. You went to the call room to get some shut cause you didn't have the energy to drive. You took off your tennis shoes and laid down on the bottom bunk facing the wall. As you are about to shut your eyes you hear the door open and see a bright light illuminated on the wall.

You turned your back to whoever just opened the door and saw Derek who looked just as tired as you are. He shut the door behind him and walked over to you. He lay down next and put his arm around your body holding you in a firm grip never letting you go.

You murmured, “How was your craniotomy on that peds patient?” 

Derek also replied with a murmur” It went great, how did your heart transplant go?”

Seconds passed by without a response. Next thing you know, Derek heard the gentle sound of your snoring. Chuckling quietly to himself, he leaned in and placed a tender kiss on your forehead. Gradually, he too began to drift off to sleep.

THIRD PERSON POV

An hour passed, and the door opened revealing Alex who needed some shut-eye from a surgery he just assisted on. As he was about to select a bed, he paused, noticing Shepherd cuddling with the new cardio attending. His eyes widened in suspicion, suspecting a romantic relationship between the two. Soon after, Lexi and a few other interns entered, their attention immediately drawn to the scene before them. While some were taken aback, Lexi found the sight incredibly endearing.

[on-my-vigilante-sht]

Haunted

Mark Sloan x Reader

Summary: Mark Sloan finally finds where his wife had been hiding

Warnings: Angst, cheating, mild smut, Addison has poison oak, medical talk, death

Word Count: 5.7K

Masterlist

I sat in the foyer of the beautiful brownstone Mark has bought us, seething. I had arrived home after a long 30-hour shift, just wanting to relax with my husband but I had instead received a call from Derek delivering the worst news of my life.

“Y/N?”

“Hey, Derek, everything okay?” I asked, concerned at his strained voice.

“Y/N, I’m so sorry.”

My heart crawled into my throat. What could have possibly happened to warrant this much concern from him? Has Addison been hurt? Had Mark? “What? Derek, you’re scaring me.”

After a pause, he spoke again. “I just found Mark in bed with Addison.” My entire body felt like it had filled with ice. I knew Addison and Derek had been on the rocks for a while but I thought Mark and I were solid. “I’m leaving, tonight, for Seattle. I have an old friend out there who’s gonna make me the head of neurosurgery. I know it’s sudden and you’re dealing with a lot right now but I’m happy to bring you out there.”

Tears pricked in my eyes, I felt so helpless. “Derek, I’m a second year resident, I can’t just up and move to a different program.”

“Richard, the chief of surgery at Seattle Grace, will help you. You may be set back a year but what’s the alternative?”

I thought for a second. I could stay here and try to work things out with Mark but I knew I’d never be able to look at or trust him again. I could break up with him and stay here but knowing him he’d never leave me in peace. My best option would be to flee. “You’re right. I’ll meet you at the Starbucks across from JFK?”

“I’ll see you there. And Y/N? I really am sorry that this happened to you.”

“I’m sorry it happened to you too.”

I had packed only the essentials into a duffle bag that sat next to me as I waited for Mark to get back to his home. My beautiful rings sat on the coffee table between me and the door, clearly visible from the doorway.

Mark had a devastated look on his face even before he opened the door. His face dropped even further when he saw my expression along with my rings on the table. “Y/N-”

“Don’t,” I interrupted. “I want a divorce,” I asked calmly, picking up my bag to walk out.

But Mark stood his ground, continuing to stand in front of the doorway. “Can we at least talk about this?”

“Why? Nothing you could possibly say could make this better or make me not hate you. You hurt your best friend and your wife,” the tears were falling now. “You threw away our entire relationship for what? So you could hurt Derek? You just had to have Addison? You wanted to hurt me?”

“No, no,” Mark protested, his own voice cracking. “Addison wanted to hurt Derek and well… I wasn’t thinking.”

“‘I wasn’t thinking?’ That’s a pathetic excuse.” I moved to walk past him but he grabbed my arm, yanking me back in front of him, moving to further block the door.

“You promised to love me for better or worse, Y/N Sloan. Well, this is worse. You made a vow.”

“You also vowed to love and honor me,” I threw back.

His grip slackened enough for me to remove my arm from his grip so I continued towards the door. But before I could step out into the night, Mark spoke again. “At least tell me where you’re going?”

I sighed. “Derek and I are getting hotel rooms for a little while,” I lied. Not wanting him to ask me anymore, I slammed the door shut, quickly hailing a taxi.

~

I stood at the nurses’ station, filling out charts when Alex came up next to me, grabbing a chart from one of the nurses. “Your patient in 402 is demanding your presence,” I told him.

He groaned, rolling his eyes. “She’s been demanding ridiculous things all day. I’ve got a surgery I need to study for.”

“Oh yeah? Tell you what, I’ll take this patient off your hands if you take my ruptured abscess.”

Alex stopped to think for a second before reaching his hand out. “Deal.” I smiled, eager to switch when suddenly a fist came out of nowhere, hitting Karev in the face. I whipped my head around, horrified to see Mark.

“What are you doing with my wife?” he yelled down at a still slightly dazed Alex.

“Mark! What the hell?” I demanded.

But before Mark could speak, Alex was up and lunging at Mark. Noticing him, I stepped between the two men, stupidly, getting myself tackled into Mark’s chest in the process. The rest of the hospital had finally realized what was going on as they pulled Alex away, Izzie trying to calm him down.

Realizing I was still in my ex-husband's arms, I pulled myself away from him. “What the fuck are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“Addison told me.”

I rolled my eyes. “You know of all the ways you could’ve found me, that is the last one I would have wanted to hear.”

“Y/N, please, just hear me out,” he begged.

I sighed, “Fine. But after I listen and make a decision, I want you out of my life forever.” Mark looked like he wanted to argue but nodded nonetheless. So I led him to an on-call room for privacy. He smiled upon entering the room. “I remember these from my residency. Or when I’d have a surgery with you at New York Presbyterian,” he flirted, stepping closer to me.

I pressed my hand against his chest, pushing him away. “Don’t. Just say what you need to say.”

He looked disappointed at my rejection but spoke anyways. “First, I want to apologize. What I did was unforgivable and it was just a moment of weakness. I love you, I always have and I always will. These past few months have been hell and everyone refused to tell me where you were.” He paused, waiting for my response but I just quirked an eyebrow at him, urging him to continue. “Look, I want you back. I’ve been wanting you back ever since… well Addison and I… anyways. Please, I can’t do this without you, come home.” He then pulled out my engagement and wedding rings and I noticed for the first time he was still wearing his ring. “You’re still my wife, Y/N Sloan.”

I took a shaky breath. “My name is L/N and the only reason we’re not legally divorced is because I didn’t want you to know where I was. But I guess that doesn’t matter now.”

“Babe, please-”

“Don’t call me babe. I have work I have to do.” I went to move past him but he grabbed my arm again, just like he did all those months ago.

“No, we’re gonna makeup,” he insisted. He pulled me in front of him again, peering down at my face. “God, you’re more beautiful than I remembered.” I remembered lines like that from early on in our relationship. They used to make me melt… I shook off any feelings from the past, trying to steel myself against my husband’s charms that would make me putty in his hand in an instant. His hand slipped under my jaw, cupping my face, fitting perfectly just like back when I thought we were made for each other. And then his lips found mine and I was gone.

I felt his other arm slip around my waist and he pulled me closer to him. Feeling my resolve slip, I brought my hands to my husband’s face and neck, kissing him back. Noticing my reciprocity, Mark lifted me slightly, bringing me to the bed. He laid me down gently, careful to not put too much weight on me. With practiced hands, he went straight for my scrub pants. Neither of us were strangers to hookups in on-call rooms. Mark and Derek had their own practice back in New York but he’d have to come to my hospital for the ORs and he’d always drag me into the on-call rooms before surgery and sometimes after.

I made no moves to undress him, a quiet voice in my mind screaming for me to stop but I ignored it. Mark didn’t seem to mind though as he pulled down his own pants and moved his lips down to my neck. It took everything in me not to moan as he hit the parts of my body that made my toes curl.

He groaned when he finally sheathed himself inside of me. “Oh my god, you’re so perfect,” he groaned, gripping the sheets next to my head. “You haven’t been with anyone else?”

“No,” I answered, fighting out pleased sounds. Truthfully I was still in love with Mark and I didn’t want to hurt him, especially the way he had hurt me. Even though I had proclaimed that we were over, sleeping with someone else would still feel like cheating. “Have you?”

“No, no of course not. It’s you, it’s always been you, it will always be you,” he professed, continuing to thrust in and out of me. He was cupping my face again and trying to look deeply into my eyes but I refused to meet his gaze. Instead just looking up at the bunk above us, focusing on making it seem like I wasn’t enjoying this. Fortunately, he gave me the decency of nuzzling his face into my neck so I wouldn’t have to avoid his gaze.

He continued pumping in and out deep, and slowly, his fingers nestled against my clit, moving in the way he knew I liked. I was gone in about two minutes, embarrassment creeping up my neck and face at being at Mark’s mercy. I could feel him smirk into my throat as he chased his own release, finishing shortly after me.

The second he did, I was pushing him off of me, hiking my pants back up around my hips. “Babe,” he protested as I headed for the door.

“I have work to do,” I explained, not even sparing him a glance. “And don’t call me babe.”

I rushed out of the on-call room, intent on finding Alex’s whiny patient but I ran into Derek first. “Y/N, I heard about Mark, are you okay?”

“Hmm? Yeah, I’m fine. Told him to fuck off,” I rushed out.

“Why’d he punch Karev?”

“I think he thought we were flirting or something. I don’t know, didn’t bother to ask.” I tried to move past him but the sound of the door I just came through opening, stopped me.

“Mark,” I heard Derek say in shock. He looked between Mark and I and the on-call room we just came out of. Mark was wearing a proud smirk and I knew it was over for my decency. So in Derek’s surprise, I took the opportunity to slip away.

~

“Y/N Sloan, to the nurses’ station. Dr. Y/N Sloan to the nurses’ station,” the intercoms rang out across the dining quad.

“Are you the Sloan they’ve been calling all day?” Cristina asked as she approached the table along with Meredith, Izzie, and George. “I didn’t even know they still used these intercoms. Why don’t they just page you?”

I groaned, looking at Izzie, who was there to witness Mark’s outburst. “Because my ex-husband is trying to humiliate me into talking to him.”

“Wait, you’re married?” George sputtered out.

“Ex,” I clarified.

“But he called you his wife?” Izzie clarified. “Who is he? What happened? Why’d he punch Alex?”

I sighed, not wanting to tell them. But I knew they’d never stop asking and soon enough my business would be all over the hospital, might as well get control of the story. “Fine. That guy? That’s my husband, Mark Sloan. We’re not legally divorced but we will be soon.”

“Wait, you’re married to Derek’s ex-best friend?” Meredith asked.

“You’re married to plastic surgery god Mark Sloan?” Cristina asked at the same time.

“Yes, and yes. Mark and I met while I was finishing up in undergrad. We got married after two years and then three years later Derek finds him in bed with Addison. So I kind of fled New York in the middle of the night with Derek. Mark is here now because Addison finally told him where I am in order to beg for me to go back. As for the punch, I don’t know, probably thought Alex and I were flirting or something. He was always a little possessive.” George scoffed a little at that.

“So you’re married to McSteamy?” Izzie mused. “I did not see that coming.”

I set down my fork. “Did you just call my cheating husband ‘McSteamy?’”

“Yeah she did,” Cristina jumped in. “Can’t say I blame her, or Addison, or you.”

I rolled my eyes at the nickname. “So I guess I’m still just as pathetic as you?” I smiled at Meredith.

“Welcome to the club of getting screwed over by attendings.”

“He’s not an attending, he’s leaving as soon as possible,” I insisted. The rest of them stared at me. “What?”

“You know that lionitis patient? Dr. Sloan offered his services. The Chief offered him head of plastics on the spot and he took it. Said he wanted to be close to his wife, which I now realize is you,” George explained.

I stared at him with wide eyes. “No, no he is not staying here,” I seethed. Standing up, I began to storm towards the surgical floor’s nurses’ station, knowing that’s where he’d be.

I stormed up to the nurses’ station, finding Mark speaking with the Chief. “Mark, stop paging me!”

“Then don’t fuck me and immediately walk away,” he countered.

My eyes widened, shocked at his words. I glanced over at Dr. Webber, blood rushing to my face, mortified. He choked a little, excusing himself. “What the hell was that?” I demanded in a whisper yell. “First you punch one of my friends and now this?”

“What? God forbid people know that a man has sex with his wife?” I shushed him again. “And I can’t defend my wife either?”

“Okay, first of all, I’m not your wife.”

“Yes you are, neither of us have signed divorce papers.”

“Okay fine, but not for long. I’m going to see a lawyer when I’m done with work so you may as well get used to not being married anymore.”

“I can’t call you my wife, or babe, or your legal name. What should I call you?”

“Nothing, leave me alone. Tell the chief you can’t stay.” I whirled around, intent to walk away when Mark called after me.

“I won’t sign them.” I stopped dead in my tracks. Turning around, I looked at him. “I won’t let one mistake end our marriage.”

“It wasn’t one mistake. Are you saying you accidentally went to the Shepherds’ house? Accidentally started taking your clothes off? Accidentally took of Addison’s? And then your only mistake was to sleep with her? No, you made a hundred choices to cheat on me. So please Mark, give me mercy and leave me with a shred of decency to sign the papers and then leave. Do you know how much you’ve humiliated me?”

“Just give me three months. Three months to win you back. If you still hate me, I’ll sign the papers and go back to New York.”

“No.”

“Come on, you wanna throw away 5 years in one night? Three months.”

I sighed. “One date.”

“Two months.”

“A week.”

“A month.”

“Fine,” I rolled my eyes. “One month.”

Mark smiled victoriously, “A month.”

~

It was about 3 am and I had just wrapped up on an emergency heart surgery. I was the last resident to leave so I had the locker room completely to myself. At least, I did until I heard the door swing open. Assuming it was just some other exhausted resident I didn’t bother to turn around until I felt familiar arms wrap around my waist. I turned my head slightly, my cheek brushing against Mark’s lips. “You were amazing in that surgery,” he murmured.

“Thanks,” I dismissed, continuing to sort through my bag.

“You really are such a gifted surgeon. You know what specialty you want yet? You’ve got the face and skill for plastics.”

“You know this is the residents’ lounge, right?” I changed the subject. “Attendings’ is down the hall.”

“I like this one better. It has you in it.” I rolled my eyes at that pickup line. “So, I was thinking you and I could get dinner together. Catch up. Get late night takeout from whatever was open like we used to.” I had to admit, I had missed those late night takeout sessions… and Mark. The worst part was that I missed my husband.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” I dismissed, twisting out of his arms.

“Y/N, our deal only works if you give me a fair shot.”

I sighed again, admittedly he was right. “Fine, we can get dinner, or I guess really early breakfast.”

Mark smirked victoriously again. “One of the other residents told me about this 24 hour place that has sandwiches.”

~

Mark opened the door to his hotel room, letting me step in. It was lavish, Mark having never shied away from the finer things in life. Mark stepped towards the desk, setting down the bag of sandwiches and sitting in the chair. Leaving me to take a seat, cross-legged on the bed. He handed me my sandwich that I eagerly opened, having not eaten anything in 6 hours. “So what’ve you been up to the last few months?”

“Work,” I answered bluntly. It was an honest and complete answer. I had to restart my second year of residency when I moved so I was barely above the bottom of the surgical food chain. “And all the residents in my year were already cliquey so my only friends are interns.”

“Richard told me you run with the girl Derek fell in love with.”

“Yeah, Meredith Grey. Now I’m the other girl who got screwed over by an attending,” I teased lightly.

He chuckled embarrassedly. “Yeah, well, sorry about that.”

“You know, when I first found out, I couldn’t wait to hear you grovel. But you’ve apologized to me so many times it’s like nails on a chalk board.”

“Sor-” Mark began but he pursed his lips when he saw my expression. “So that guy I punched? What’s up with him?”

“Beyond being a sometimes decent coworker? Nothing. But you should apologize to him, for me. He wants to go into plastics and I think you punching him threw a wrench into that plan. And as long as he’s not still pissed at you, I think he’d love to learn from you.”

“You’re going awfully out of your way for the guy that is ‘sometimes a decent coworker.’”

I sent Mark a tired look. “Are you actually going there right now?”

“I guess I don’t have much of a leg to stand on when it comes to this,” he said shyly, realizing his mistake.

“Ya think?” I asked sarcastically. “So what’ve you been doing?”

“Well when you first left I stopped working for a while. I poured everything into finding you… and admittedly a bottle. I was a mess, I couldn’t eat or sleep. All I really did was drink and beg for people to tell me where you were. But after like a month I finally gave up and went back to working. I did nothing but work for 4 months. Then… Addison called, said she was in Seattle with you and Derek and I was on the next flight here. I had to fly economy because there were no first class seats available,” he said with disgust.

“Oh the horror,” I laughed.

We fell into a comfortable silence and it felt almost like back when we were still happily married. The silence was first broken by my yawn since I had now been up for 20 hours. “I miss you,” Mark admitted. “I miss your smile, your laugh, your kindness. I miss how cute you are when you’re tired. How you used to come home and collapse into bed with me. I miss your cooking and how you said it was the next best thing to surgery.” He scooted his chair closer so he could grab my hands which had been sitting limply in my lap. “I miss your hands,” he kissed them, “and your legs, and your hair, and your eyes, and your nose, and your lips,” he punctuated each body part with a kiss there. But it was finally the kiss on my lips that made me snap out of Mark’s trance.

“No,” I said, pushing away. “Earlier was a moment of weakness, a mistake.”

“Ahah, so sleeping with someone is one mistake?” he beamed. “And a moment of weakness is just that, a moment.”

I scoffed, rolling my eyes. He had been so sweet and apologetic, now he was trying to get off the hook? “This afternoon wasn’t like you and Addison at all. I knew exactly what I was doing. I knew I’d regret it but I chose to anyway. And when I sleep with you I’m the only one getting hurt. I wasn’t cheating.” He looked dejected, realizing I was right and he couldn’t get out of this on a technicality. “I’m going,” I declared, moving to get off the bed.

“Y/N, you have work in two hours and we’re right across the street from the hospital. Sleep here.”

“You’re that eager to get me into your bed?” I scoffed.

“Look, I’ll sleep on the floor if that makes you feel better but I’m not letting you leave.”

“Fine,” I agreed, crawling up to the head of the bed to slip under the covers. Mark grabbed one of the many pillows from the bed, throwing it down onto the floor. As he laid down it dawned on me that he didn’t have a blanket. Feeling bad, I spoke. “Get up here.”

Mark didn’t have to be told twice as he quickly slipped under the sheets. But as soon as he did, I was turned the other way, refusing to acknowledge him further. “Goodnight,” he wished me as he turned off the lamp.

~

In the morning I woke up the same way I used to, the same way I had been missing for the past 5 months. My head was rested on Mark’s chest, his arms wrapped around me, and his lips murmuring against my ear that it was time to get up. Upon regaining my senses, I jumped out of bed, trying to find my shoes and jacket. Being back in his arms made me realize how much I had missed him but I couldn’t afford to slip back into those old habits.

“So am I just a bed warmer to you?” Mark asked from his spot in bed, watching me get ready. “I mean I’m fine with it if that’s all you’ll give me but I’d just like to know what I’m getting myself into.”

I sent him an eyeroll. “No, I just felt bad for you. Thanks for the wakeup, by the way,” I thanked, checking my watch to see I’d be right on time.

“Of course. What else are husbands for?”

I took a breath, not wanting to encourage him. “Bye.”

“I’m actually headed there myself, gonna operate on the lionitis kid. You wanna scrub in?”

“Are you actually trying to buy my love with surgeries?”

“It worked last time,” he laughed. “Well, you were still in school so more like homework answers but it still worked.”

I laughed, dismissively shaking my head, “I’ll see you later.”

~

Cristina, Alex, and I were waiting around the main nurses’ station, waiting for our assignments for the day. “How’s your face?” I asked Alex.

“Fine, I’ve taken worse,” he answered casually.

“Only reason he’s not mad is because he wants to kiss the plastics god’s ass,” Cristina teased.

“Shut up,” was all he said, offering no other defense for himself.

Fortunately for him Cristina couldn’t prod anymore because Derek was approaching. “You three, you’re assisting with Jake Burton today. Come with me,” he called, barely stopping to talk to us. We all scurried after him as we headed towards his room. Upon entering we found Mark drawing on the kid’s face.

“Dr. Sloan,” Derek interrupted him. “Don’t you think this is unnecessary?”

Mark gave him an annoyed look but before he could say anything, the parents spoke up. “We talked with Dr. Sloan and Jake, we’ve decided we’ll go ahead with the facial reconstruction.”

Derek pursed his lips, annoyed. I knew that about half a year ago Derek wouldn’t have hesitated to jump in on this joint surgery. It’s what their practice had been built on but now Derek was letting his feelings get in the way of patient care. “Fine, doctors,” he looked at the three of us and Mark, “come with me.”

We all shuffled out after him except for Mark who seemed to begrudgingly storm after Derek. “You have no right to undermine me in front of patients like that,” Mark immediately began.

“You’re a guest at this hospital, an unwelcome one at that. You have no right offering surgeries to patients— my patient.”

“Did you already forget that Webber made me Head of Plastics? You’re not the only surgeon with a fancy contract anymore,” Mark shot back.

Derek rolled his eyes. “Fine, Karev, you’re with Dr. Sloan.”

“Actually I’d like the other Dr. Sloan-” I sent him a glare, “Dr. L/N. The Chief gave me full authority to use whatever resources I need for this surgery.”

“She’s not some tool you get to use. Or something to play with whenever you feel like it. Is that what our marriages were to you? Something you could break when it suited you?”

“Dr. Shepherd!” I interrupted. “I appreciate that you’re trying to defend my honor but I don’t need you to. Besides you really want to do this here?” I gestured to all the people watching us. “Alex, you go with Dr. Sloan, I’ll go find something else to work on,” I dismissed, heading down to the pit.

As I was waiting for the elevator, I saw one of the last people I wanted to interact with. Addison stumbled towards me, looking like she had a squirrel in her pants. “Dr. L/N, I know we’re not exactly on the best of terms right now but I need a consult.” I looked at her, confused. We had worked on a few cases together perfectly civil. “I need a consult,” she clarified.

Catching her inflection and the fact that she was clearly uncomfortable, my mouth formed an O. “I see, c’mon, we’ll go to one of the private exam rooms.”

“Ah thank you,” she sighed in relief.

Upon having Addison in the stirrups and her explanation of her morning walk, I knew exactly what she was suffering from. “Yep, poison oak in probably the worst place you could have it,” I confirmed her suspicions.

She groaned, lying back on the table. “I guess this is karma.”

“You could say so,” I laughed gently. “I’ll get the calamine lotion and don’t worry, you have my discretion.” I grabbed the lotion from a storage closet, retuning to Addison.

“How come you don’t hate me?” she asked as I began to get to work. “Even my own husband, who chose to stay married to me, hates me.”

I sighed, “I don’t know. I did hate you, maybe I still do. But Derek can really hold a grudge so maybe that’s why I look so forgiving in comparison. But I have a hard time hating and turning my back on the people who were my family, even if they hurt me in the worst way possible.”

“I really am sorry. Mark and I, we regret everything.”

“I’m so sick of apologies. Do you know how many times Mark said he was sorry yesterday?”

“I heard he was here. And that he punched one of your friends, Karev.”

“Yeah, always been a bit possessive. Of course that’s painfully ironic now,” I laughed bitterly. “Alright, that’s as much as I can do for you right now. Apply more tonight.”

~

“Hey,” I heard Mark’s gruff voice gently coax me out of my thoughts. I turned, finding him in scrubs, his surgical gown open and flowing behind him. He always looked so good in scrubs.

“Hey,” I replied. “I heard about Jake. I’m so sorry.” Cristina had told me that the lionitis patient had died almost immediately after Derek had opened his head up. I felt bad for the kid, he had been so excited for a normal face.

He shrugged, taking a seat next to me. He sighed, pulling off his scrub cap. “I’m just sorry I couldn’t give him a sense of normalcy. But I talked to his parents, they said I could still do the surgery post mortem so he could be buried the way he wanted. Wanna help?”

I thought for a second. On one hand I didn’t want to continue to entertain the idea that Mark had a chance with me. On the other I needed to cut so desperately. “Sure, why not?”

He smiled. “Atta girl.”

We went down to the autopsy room in order to do the procedure and I had to admit it felt nice. I used to love performing surgery with Mark. It was always a comfortable silence while we worked together and when we did talk it was easy. Moments like this and memories of moments like this made it so hard to stop loving him. As we worked quietly I really thought for the first time since he came here. I had never really stopped loving him and even though I never wanted to see him again, a small part of me was relieved he tried so hard to find me and now he’s fighting for me.

By the time Jake’s parents came down to see him I was an emotional wreck. Seeing them grieve for their son made me burst. “I’m sorry,” I choked, stepping into a back room.

Mark was beside me in a second, closing the door for privacy. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, a distressed look on his face. I just crossed my arms, looking at the floor, trying to force down my emotions. I wanted to be strong enough to not tell him how I felt but I felt his finger underneath my chin. He pulled my face up to meet his concerned eyes. “I can’t help you if you won’t tell me.”

I swallowed harshly, unwilling to tell him. “I miss you,” I relented. “I miss us. I am haunted by you. I didn’t even realize I still loved you until you showed up. But it hurts. It hurts to love and miss you because you hurt me.” I could feel the tears slipping down my face and my throat straining against the sobs. “You hurt me so bad, Mark, and now I can’t trust you. I used to say that cheating is it, I’d never be able to forgive cheating but the worst part is that I want to forgive you. And I can’t forgive you and love you and still have any self respect.”

“C’mere,” Mark sighed, pulling me into a hug. I broke down, sobbing into his chest. “Sleeping with Addison was a mistake, one I fully own up to and take responsibility for. And I’m gonna tell you this not because I want you to feel bad or I think you should have any of the blame but the reason I did it was because I wanted you to notice me. You were at the hospital all the time and I knew then, and know now, that that wasn’t your choice. I guess it was just hard for me to see you be independent because it felt like you were so dependent on me for so long and I liked that you needed me. And I’m sorry for trying to hold you back and for hurting you in order to hold you back but please, let me help you grow and succeed now. That’s all I want in the world.”

“Promise not to hurt me again,” I demanded.

“I promise. You have my full permission to cut off my testicles if I do.”

“Okay,” I laughed. “I’m in, Mark. I’m in it to make our marriage work.” I tilted my head up to look at him as I spoke.

“Thank you,” he beamed in relief. “Thank you,” he repeated in a relieved whisper.

Masterlist

[dr-tonytonychopper]

fuck you, hospitalizes ur one piece

luffy: intern future general surgeon

zoro: head of orthopedic surgery

nami: intern future pediatric surgeon

usopp: medical engineer turned intern future oncology surgeon

sanji: head of plastic surgery

vivi: intern future obgyn surgeon

chopper: general surgeon

robin: head of neurosurgery

franky: medical engineer

brook: chief of surgery was a trauma surgeon

ace: plastic surgeon specializes in burn victims

law: head of cardio

kid: plastic surgeon deals with amputees

sabo: neurosurgeon

small headcanons

luffy and sabo raise money and end up naming the hospital portgas memorial hospital

sanji and zoro fought each other to be the best intern and never realized neither had it and it was in fact law

sanji, law and zoro share an apartment

kid and ace never wanted to do plastic surgery bc they figured it was just face lifts and boob jobs but sanji kept getting punished and getting stuck with the worst interns

nami becomes chief resident

usopp always wanted to be a doctor but thought he couldn’t so he did medical engineering before switching

usopp went into oncology bc of his mom and kaya

luffy genuinely has no idea what is going on and failed his intern year the first time

the nurses are boycotting sanji

kid argues with kids and has multiple sit down conversations about his bedside manner

ace is a brown noser

sabo brings up that he lost his memory to his patients and when he gets in trouble he goes “it wasn’t like i did it to myself🙄”

the interns only know franky as the guy dating robin

if you need zoro you better physically go to him because more than likely he’s asleep somewhere

franky hand delivers whatever robin needs to her and when it comes to everyone else he’s like “you have legs🙄💅”

sanji, law and zoro share a bed(jk)

sanji and law have known each other since high school

law doesn’t answer most of his pages

luffy and usopp share an apartment

nami runs bets in the hospital

nami almost became a trauma surgeon but it was too much for her and she had a calling for pediatric

nami, usopp and luffy caught sanji crying in a janitor’s closet bc a patient thought sabo was his son

the last hc was inspired by the fact that i thought sabo was sanji in an edit i saw

also b4 ppl bitch and moan abt ages and shit idc

[chaosology]

somebody else ii

— spencer reid x reader

pairing: spencer reid (criminal minds/ fem! reader

genre: angst and fluff | masterlist

content warnings: angst, cancer mentions

summary: a continuation of part one. spencer seeks forgiveness and y/n just wants peace.

The most important part of getting over someone is the cleanse, Y/N had always been told. Rid yourself of the things that they remind you of; the things that pain you to even think about. She had prided herself of her ability to follow through with this process, it was what she told her friends when they had problems. However, she had now realized it was easier said than done.

The tardis mug sat still on her nightstand, Spencer had given it to her when he saw her looking at it through a shop window. She had insisted that she didn't need it and that she was just admiring the handiwork, but “I’m a profiler Y/N, I see right through you”. She remembers the ways she looked affectionately up at him while he paid at the counter, and how she caught him looking at her while she held it in her hands. She spent so long looking at it while they walked down the path that she tripped, and he caught her in his arms. It was a very Spencer like moment, as he stumbled over his words while still holding her for a moment too long.

He didn’t look at her like that when he yelled at her. When he shouted in her face.

She had left the BAU only three weeks ago to focus on her residency. She had switched out her light blue scrubs for a slightly darker shade and started burying herself in her work. She took up extra shifts at the hospital, impressing her superiors and workmates - especially the young attending who she had liked once before. His name was Lucas, and he was considered a “rising star” in the neurosurgery field. She had to admit that he was cute, with dark curly hair and deep blue scrubs that screamed dreamy. He was first to notice that she was out of sorts when she returned to work and held her in the locker room while she broke down crying. They shared stories about their unfortunate love lives and grew closer as the weeks passed, but Y/N still couldn’t get rid of the feelings at the bottom of her heart.

What did Maeve have that she didn’t? She felt bad thinking about it, how selfish did you have to be to envy a dead girl that your best friend loved? But they both had similar careers, were intelligent, had an interest in the same things as Spencer and both had a penchant for reading. That was what hurt the most, Y/N thought. That they were so similar but Maeve was just... better. Y/N was the person you probably wouldn’t glance at twice, but Maeve seemed to be the one you would do everything in your power to speak to. Sometimes life was unfair, she thought. Sometimes it really fucking sucked.

Spencer spent days laying on his couch after his fight with Y/N. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, but he couldn’t control himself as pure hatred clawed its way up and out of his throat. He didn’t want to say those things to Y/N, but in that moment he needed someone to be hurting that wasn't him. Again, he didn’t want it to be her. But his mouth overpowered all his rational thoughts and targeted Y/N.

And god, poor Y/N. The pain that flooded her face when he yelled was unbearable. She looked miserable as she tried to stop the tears, hands wiping at her reddened cheeks. What made him feel worse was that she tried to defend him. That among all the yelling she was trying to make him feel better. She was so selfless and kind and compassionate and he had crushed it all with his bare hands. He was afraid to admit to himself that he liked Y/N at first. She was a bit younger than him and was new to the stress of the BAU - he didn’t want to add to that. But she completely captured him from day one. He tried to do the little things to impress her, like read up on her surgeries and memorise her timetables. She was one of the only people that would let him ramble about his interests and would actually pay attention to his unprompted statistics and facts. He was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, she would like him back. But then he met Maeve, and figured he would play it safe and see where things went. His admiration for her surrounded him, and he slowly sunk away from the idea of things ever going anywhere with Y/N.

He truly loved Maeve. She was one of the only women who had returned his feelings and that he had a chance to be with. When she revealed her paranoia around her stalker, his profiler side came to light. He was ashamed to admit that he started viewing their relationship as more of a case, which only made him hate himself before. If he thought about it with a clear head, maybe it was the fact he was dating someone that was so appealing, rather than the fact he was dating Maeve.

When he wandered into work a few weeks later he was confronted with an empty desk. When had Y/N left? None of his coworkers had ever mentioned to him that she was gone. He had spent time thinking of how to apologise to her, as after all, they had both had time to recuperate and think things through. He didn’t realise that he had hurt her that bad. Surely she knew that a large percentage of people who grieve a loved one experience extreme and often uncontrolled anger.

He had to fix this, and fast. How much time had he wasted?

Y/N awoke to a gentle knock at her front door. She picked her head up from her study books that she had (accidentally) fallen asleep on and wandered over to the door. Who was coming over at this hour? Her face fell as she was greeted with a somber looking Spencer Reid. She gasped and slammed the door, which he had blocked with his left foot. She felt ever so slightly bad as he grimaced in pain.

“What?”

“Oh. Hi. Hi Y/N. I actually wanted to apologise for-”

“No need,” she snapped, “I understand. You can go now. I’m not coming to work at the BAU anymore, I’m out of your way for good now.”

“No. Please, Y/N. I was awful. So awful. And I can’t go home with a clear cons-”

“Is that what I am, Spencer? Was I on your to do list today? ‘Go shopping. Solve crimes. Go harass Y/N so I don’t have to feel bad anymore.' Well, too bad! I don’t give a fuck! Go home and sulk for all I care. Just leave me be, you’ve made your point.”

She went to close the door with the final words, but he pushed past once again and made his way in front of her, swaying back and forth rather awkwardly. She stood with her arms across her chest with a “don’t fuck with me right now” expression on her face.

“Y/N, I’m sorry. Really sorry. I lashed out at you and you didn’t deserve a second of it. Y/N, it’s hard for me to say it… but I liked you… romantically and-”

“And?? There’s an ‘and’. Let's get one thing clear, Reid. You do not get to come to my apartment to try and apologise by telling me you were into me. You have to be fucking joking. You think that fixes things? I can’t believe you are that selfish. As if your feelings make it all go away. I loved you Spencer Reid. You could’ve politely rejected my help without telling me I should’ve died. And then you come here, with no warning may I add, to confuse me? I won't come crawling back to you . I won’t.”

“Wait, no I didn’t mean it like that” he stuttered.

“Then what did you mean by it, huh? Just leave. You’ve done enough already.”

He smiled sadly as his eyes teared up, walking towards the door. He knew she was right. He was selfish to show up and say that he liked her like that. He was desperate for forgiveness and his judgement was clouded. He would figure out some way to make it up to her though. He had to.

Y/N dragged herself back to work the next day. Just as she thought she was getting over him, her late night run in with Reid had brought up her old feelings. She grabbed a coffee from the cart across the road and got to work, changing into her scrubs and tying up her hair. She was on rotations with neuro, meaning she would get to spend the day with Lucas. Hopefully he wouldn't say anything about her glum mood. As the elevator doors opened, she came face to face with the man himself. He smiled as he walked in and pressed the button for the fifth floor. He turned to her rather sheepishly,

“Hey, Y/N. I know you’re going through a tough time right now so I was wondering if we could go to lunch today. Nowhere fancy, y’know, just the cafeteria…”

“Uh, sure. I’d love to. It’s a date.”

They smiled at one another, but the moment was cut short by her pager going off. As she ran out the elevator she looked back at him, smiling warmly. Maybe today wasn’t going to be too bad after all.

After a tough morning, she sat opposite Lucas while eating her salad. It was raining heavily outside and they made small talk about the weather. Lucas had a strict rule of no medical talk at the table. She felt happy with him, she could spend ages with him in fact. But something just didn’t feel right. She hated that she wasn’t invested in the date as much as she should be, why did her brain have to be like this? They stood up once they had finished, and she moved to talk but he started first.

“Y/N, I had a great time with you. Really. But I can tell something’s off, and it’s not your fault. Maybe you're not over your guy yet, which I understand, because I’m not over mine. I thought I was ready to get back out there but I think I need more time. Maybe in a few years we can try again, yeah?”

She laughed softly, “I was thinking the same thing. But I had fun with you. And if you ever need a lunch buddy or someone to vent to. I’m here.”

He nodded and they embraced. As she looked over his shoulder she recognised a familiar figure standing outside in the rain. They noticed her and turned around to walk away, so she politely excused herself and jogged slowly out the doors towards them. Her hands over her haid to shield her face she called out to them, watching as they turned around to reveal themselves. Spencer.

He was sopping wet. His hair was drenched all over his face and his clothes were soaked. In one hand was a cup of coffee and in the other was a piece of paper and a bouquet of daffodils.

“Spencer, what the hell? You’re going to get sick out here” she shouted over the rain, beckoning him inside.

“Y/N. I’m here to apologise this time. Properly. I planned out everything I wanted to say to you, too. I never wanted to hurt you, I know it sounds like a lie but I didn’t. I took my anger out on you and that was so completely wrong of me” He started. She didn’t interrupt.

“Ever since I met you I was enchanted. You are so warm and kind, you make me want to wake up and be a better person. In fact. I’m astounded by you. I’ve gone my whole life without anyone who understood me. But you do. And I know nothing will ever fix what I’ve said and done but I hope this makes it at least a little better. And if it doesn’t, you can probably watch me get sick and develop pneumonia. Because it’s statistically very likely.”

“Spencer…” She stepped forward.

“The coffee, it’s from your favourite cart - the one a block away. You said that the one in the hospital 'tastes like the colour grey’ but you can never be bothered to walk all the way over to the one you like. And daffodils, you never used to like them but it’s what the hospital gives out to patients when they’re cancer free and done with treatment. You said that seeing them now makes you happy. And the paper is from the movie ‘Love, Actually’. You like to point out all the things you would’ve done better than the main characters but you still watch it every Christmas. I meant to write something on here but I didn’t know what so I let it blank, sorry”

He paused, taking a breath and trying to gauge her reaction. She stood frozen, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. “Y/N, I’ve always liked you. You told me once that you were always the other girl, but you’re not. Not to me. You’re not my somebody else. You’re my eternal. I’d wait forever for you. I’d do anything to make you happy, even if it means never seeing you again. I just wanted you to know that I never truly meant what I said.”

She spent a small while just staring at him, tears down her cheeks and mouth agape. She rushed forward all of a sudden, hugging him tightly. He dropped the cup out of shock, but slowly his hands wrapped back around her and his chin rested on her head. “Would you really wait forever for me?” She sniffled.

“I’d wait eons for you, Y/N Y/L/N.

[britcision]

In honour of a combo Wednesday and then post-midnight Yule, have a WIP Wednesday friends! We haven’t seen Sam for a while and Hanukkah was early this year (finished on the 15) but we are here now!

This chapter’s already gotten intense as hell for Danny and Jason with Lady Gotham but we’ve been tragically without our resident fashionable goth (sorry not sorry Bruce) and we are definitely still a muppet movie, so enjoy Sam-Miss-Piggy creating some extra chaos behind the scenes 👀

No promises about how regular these updates will be because again, plot chapter, I like letting those drop without spoiling the reveals too much, but we shall see

——————

Chapter 18 part i So That Just Happened

Back in her own room on the other side of the country from Gotham, Sam Manson reclined back into giant, coffin shaped body pillow her beloved girlfriend had given her when they moved and contemplated her phone.

The brand new Wayne-chat was blowing up satisfactorily, although apparently Tim was a massive stalker too. That was probably a good thing; it meant she hadn’t actually nuked Tuck’s chances with his nerd-crush. Now they could bond over their mutual stalker tendencies.

But, did that make her revenge less effective?

It wasn’t like she was actually out to ruin his life, but she’d kinda like to leave a mark. Something that would make him think twice about letting her think he and Danny had fucking died in Gotham in her absence.

Or. Well. Gone radio silent in Gotham, which was probably actually worse because if they were dead she’d know exactly where they were.

The Wayne chat were all pretty sure Tim and Tucker were together too, and Sam’s new best friend Babs had even pulled up the feed from their living room tv somehow. Sam wasn’t exactly the tech wizard Tucker was, but… after seeing that, she disconnected her and Val’s TV from the wifi.

And settled in to remote watch Tuck get his ass kicked at Spiderheck, apparently. At least for a little while; until something else on her phone caught her attention.

It was… almost funny. While she knew she was a whole two timezones away, she’d never really felt left out before. Like maybe she should have stayed on the east coast…

Not that she regretted it, of course. She had a good job, a good school, a wonderful girlfriend who’d been so excited to get into a good school and really go to town on the business department.

(Apparently there were posters of Val’s face in the ethics classrooms. Sam refused to ask if they were golden example or dire warning.)

She was just… a long way away. Even a long portal away, and… being back with the guys, even in Gotham, made the quiet of their comfy little apartment seem lonely.

Huffing, she turned and traced her fingers through the leaves of her mimosa plant on the windowsill beside the bed. They curled gently shut at her touch, and made her smile. Just like always.

She was happy to be home. She wasn’t technically liminal enough yet that it was her haunt, but… well, for all the jokes Val made, Sam had to admit she’d put down roots. She loved her job at the greenhouses, and her internship at the botanical gardens.

She loved scaring the hell out of the dudebros in Val’s business classes who thought ethics were a waste of time. She loved sharing messages with Jazz about the boys, laughing that even three hours ahead, Tuck and Danny still couldn’t get up before them.

She was kinda considering texting Harley about Timblr too. Not like, for any particular reason; if Tim’s family weren’t gonna embarrass Tucker enough, Harley probably wouldn’t either. She’d probably think it was adorable.

Or, y’know, worrying evidence of obsession. Psych types worried about stuff like that, usually.

Sam was kinda also considering sending Harley Jazz’s number. Jazz might still be skating just on the neurosurgery side of the line, but she’d always been big into psychology. Big enough to try and double major, and only drop to major-minor after the third pre-exam meltdown.

And she could use having someone else do the shrink bit on her a little more often. Although really, for that Sam should make her a professional appointment; friends didn’t ask friends to psychoanalyze their overprotective pseudo-sisters. And Jazz could use more friends.

Jazz could use a transfer to a specialty that would let her sleep once in a while, a more stable supply of fresh ecto, and about six weeks in a meditation retreat to get the accidental telepathy under control, but more friends would be good too. And less stubborn insistence on her second try for double majors.

Maybe the switch to psychiatry full time would be good for her? Or psychology. Sam was a little fuzzy on the difference, which one Jazz was minoring in, and which one Harley did.

(Jazz’s current second major was neurosurgery, which Jazz insisted was totally less taxing alongside a neurology major because it was the same body part. She was the only person in her class attempting the double major though, so.)

Humming tunelessly to herself, Sam flicked back into the group chat. Babs was still sharing the feed… brows drawing in, Sam frowned at the little spider figures still fighting to the death. Now, she wasn’t as big of a gamer as she used to be, but she was pretty sure Spiderheck didn’t actually offer red berets.

Snorting a laugh, she flicked back out of the chat and opened a new one, adding both Jazz and Harley. All it needed was the perfect name… something that would grab both of their attention.

Obvious. Child’s play.

Snuggling back into her coffin pillow, Sam grinned down at her phone screen.

Danny Has A Boyfriend chat was live.

——————

And in at the last minute, Jazz! We’ll see if she shows up in person this chapter, I’m hoping it’ll be the last big lore dump before the first plot arc begins but We Shall See…

Chapter 20 is right around the corner though, and I like my divisibles of 5 so I miiiiight shoot for that Red Hood Reveal then… 👀

Tag List: @welcometosasakiworld @someonebored0100 @stealingyourbones @starkcravingmad @frostedthroughghost @akikkobara @rainbowbunny0159 @littlefeather345 @violet-catsarelife @serasvictoria02 @wolfjackle @blacksea21090 @secretdestinywerewolf @anime-hipster-the-amazing @undead-essence @skitscratched @blackroserelina @snoodly-boop @mayoota-blog @xysidhe @little-apricot-the-writer @chaoticmistake @the-legal-shipper @bun-fish @aroranorth-west @demon-cat-goes-woof @perfectwastelandcreation @onyxlightdragon @larks-and-katydids @peachesandcreamfemboy @jesus-camp-the-sequel @may-rbi @mothman-the-mothman87 @viyatrix @stargirl1331 @thedepressedrobin @skulld3mort-1fan @rootsmudge @ravenshadow17 @cankoking @phantom-dc @mentalcarebear @magic-pincushion @redamancyardor @lyra689 @itsparadoxlacuna @alcorbearson @asphyxia778 @why-must-i-be-like-this @tkiesai @greenpyrowolf @frivolous-pastel @honeysuckletook @adorkable1291

[possibilistfanfiction]

I love any AUs you write! I love any canon you write! Whenever you write anything I'm so happy :) I know things are busy in life always so I'm waiting patiently and with excitement. Thank you

this is so sweet, here's something a little silly.

/

summary: "ava is quiet for a while. 'do you think,' she whispers, 'that we know each other in all of them?'

it's late and ava is drunk and you say things you mean, when it's like this. when the rest of the world is asleep and there's ava's perfume and the mountains. you say the truth quietly: 'i can't imagine my universe doesn't have you in it.'"

[or: in every universe, there's a lot of love. 5 small AUs, + 1 canon]

ao3

//

this is the golden age (of something good & right & real)

this i can tell you: when i came to your apartment for the first time, i recognized it. i knew, without knowing how, that i would never leave. these were the bricks you had been laying without knowing it; this was the path my flares had been lighting. it was the beginning of a wobbly and joyful and occasionally gross carrying on, learning to come home to you, marked and myself.

— jordan kissner, 'backward miracle', from thin places

/

1

it hurts, to hold death in your hands.

there's blood all over your scrubs and there's nothing you could have done differently; your hands are fast and clever and so is your brain. you've trained for so long for this, practiced for years and years, and still, you can't save everyone.

it's what ava tells you, after you've called time of death and after you have to tell a family that their son is dead, that the damage was too severe even before he was on your operating table, even before you'd cracked open his chest and held his shredded heart; he had died with you saying a silent apology, a prayer, a blessing. it's what ava tells you when she finds you in the attending lounge, tucked into a corner of the couch, your hands stinging.

'wanna hear a horrible platitude, dr. choi?'

you tuck your head into her shoulder, take comfort in the familiarity of her rose perfume and the starchy laundry detergent the hospital uses and the softness of her fleece quarterzip, ava silva, md, phd, facs embroidered on one side, department of neurosurgery smaller beneath. you feel her pulse beneath your lips on her neck, less of a kiss and more of a measure: 74 beats per minute, you count, healthy and normal and real.

'when has me saying no to that ever stopped you, dr. silva?'

she grins. 'someone very wise once told me: you can't save everyone.'

you huff, but it's not with any bite, and you follow along when she puts a finger under your chin and asks, silently, for you to meet her eyes. there are things you need to do, now that you're out of surgery and your shift is, technically, over: pick up your daughter from her tennis lesson; remember to remind ava to grill the zucchini for dinner you both keep forgetting is in the fridge; fold the load of laundry that you'd left in the dryer the night before; take your dog to his weekly canine good citizen class. there are things you need to do but for right now the only important thing is your wife, small and beautiful and brilliant, running her hand through your hair, scratching your scalp lightly, stilling her hand comfortingly there, the back of your skull. she rebuilds spines and you save hearts, or at the very least, you try; her back aches, all the time, and you have more grey in your hair every year.

when you had started your residency program here you had known you would be excellent at surgical innovation, at quick, precise sutures, at research; you hadn't anticipated, at all, how ava silva — brash and loud and deeply caring — had made all of that seem minuscule in the face of listening to a patient carefully, every single time. insignificant compared to the way she loves you, the way she has since before she had been so brave and kissed you one day in the stairwell after you'd saved someone. it's always a miracle: stitching someone's chest up, whole; kissing ava like it's the only thing you've ever wanted.

'i wish i could,' you say, softly, an admission and a hope.

'i know, baby.' ava kisses your temple. 'that's why you're the best in the world. that's why you do save so many people.'

you want to tell her no, it's because you love me. it's because you've given me a life and a home and a beautiful child and endless patience when i can't quite catch up, can't quite love as big or as loud or with the same abandon. you want to tell her so much, all the time, but she just cups your jaw and looks you calmly in the eyes.

'i know,' she tells you softly.

'i love you.'

she smiles, easy and delighted, just like she had the first time you said it, all those years ago, in the middle of a rainstorm in the parking lot after you'd jogged after her at the end of a shift, when you couldn't last another moment without saying it, without her knowing for sure. 'oh, bea,' she says, 'i love you too.'

you don't bother to change out of your new pair of scrubs, and ava seems to decide that's fine for her too. she carefully folds your slacks and sweater and puts them in your duffle, then throws her nice clothes in a messy pile on top. you roll your eyes but just for posterity.

she fishes your wedding bands out from the small zipped pocket on the side and puts hers on, then grins when she runs her thumb along your tender wrist and slips it onto your finger. it's raining again today, too, and you open your umbrella as you leave, make sure ava is completely covered. your shoulder gets a little wet but you don't mind. ava takes your hand in hers, cold and slightly chapped and real — so, so real — and you hold it too, easy: life.

/

2

ava silva, you read on the report, and then the details about her arrest. she has no priors and there's a whole slew of cases just like this judge superion continues to dismiss entirely — much to your delight — in the wake of so many protests. your job has been monumentally chaotic lately, but you're glad for it, glad you're able to do something.

you take a deep breath and comb your fingers through your hair with its neat part and clean edges, straighten the lapels on your suit, and set your shoulders: you will win.

when you open the door, ava perks up. she's wearing a t-shirt that says ACAB on it, with a picture of pigs behind, and there's both a small palestinian flag and a small bisexual flag taped on the handles of her chair. her hair, just brushing her chin, is kind of a mess, and she looks exhausted, but, still she smiles.

'you're my lawyer?'

you're a little thrown off by the question: you're young, but so is ava; you'd passed the bar with one of the highest scores in the state a few years ago and have been excellent ever since, offered countless partner track positions at various firms, but instead you've chosen to do work you actually care about; you've been building a rock solid reputation as one of the most gifted attorneys at the aclu for awhile now.

but you nod, offer your hand. 'beatrice, she/her pronouns.'

'sweet. i'm ava — which i guess you already know — any pronouns.'

you nod and make a neat little note on the report.

'okay, before you judge me for what i'm about to say, please know that i haven't slept in 36 hours, and i think i might be getting a pressure sore on my hip because i've had to be in my chair this entire time.'

you frown. 'that's unconstitutional. they're supposed to make sure you have accommodations under the ADA.'

'yeah,' she says, ‘well, if the police state actually cared about disabled people, we probably wouldn’t be in this jail, would we?’

you bite your bottom lip. ‘we wouldn’t.’

she shrugs. ‘anyway. i was just gonna say you’re hot.’

'oh.'

'don't read too much into it,' ava says. 'i'm tired.'

'understandably so. would it be more comfortable for you to move somewhere else? i can probably arrange it quickly.'

'nah,' they say, dismiss the idea with a wave of their hand. 'let's just get this over with, right? i mostly just want to go home.' their shoulders soften. 'thank you, though.'

'of course.'

'you really mean that, don't you?’

you know the weight of it. 'yes, i do.'

ava's smile is bright, tired, easy, especially for all of this. 'do you want to hear my side, or do you already know what you're going to tell the jury?'

'there won't be a jury,' you say, seriously, and then laugh when you realize ava was kidding. 'i suspect, in fact, that judge superion will dismiss all charges immediately.'

'whew,' ava says, 'thank fuck.'

'i do want to know what happened, though. if you feel safe and comfortable telling me. i can pull in mental health support if that would be helpful.'

'oh,' ava says, but then shakes his head. 'that's okay. you're, you know, you seem cool. in addition to being hot.'

'ava.'

'sorry.' she grins and you're already helpless against it. she tells you what happened, and, just like you suspected, ava had done nothing wrong, and, just as you've always come to expect, the cop assaulted her, certainly not the other way around. she also tells you that she runs community outreach programming for a grassroots disability justice organization, that she's a mario kart champion, and that she has a cat named serena williams — not necessary, but endearing nonetheless, and you don't stop her. instead, you take notes carefully and put your pen down when it's clear she's finished.

'well, i feel strongly that your case will be dismissed without any issue, although of course i can't promise for certain.'

'poor form, i guess. makes sense.'

'unfortunately, you should change your shirt before we go into the courtroom.'

'damn,' ava says, shaking her head ruefully, although she laughs. 'can i keep the flags, though?'

you shrug out of your jacket; ava probably doesn't have any spare clothes, and it's easier this way. you want her to get to go home as quickly as possible. 'you can keep the flags,' you say, and hand your jacket to her quietly.

'damn, gucci? i — i can't wear this. like, for real, beatrice.'

'no worries.' she still frowns. 'genuinely. it’s due to be dry-cleaned anyway.'

she squints. your suit jacket is deep green, linen lined with gold silk. it had been the first thing you'd bought yourself when you passed the bar, when you were just settling into your skin: tailored suits and crisp button-downs, comfortable, soft sweaters and loose cotton pants on the weekends. you cannot think of a single other person in the entire world that you would so casually let wear something so special, something that holds a lot of comfort and pride.

ava still looks skeptical but he puts it on, lifting with his arms to tuck it properly around his waist, and then buttons it so that the majority of his shirt is covered. 'thank you, beatrice.'

you nod. 'let's go get everything taken care of, yes?'

and you do: it goes as you'd both hoped and expected, and soon, you're walking with ava out of the courthouse. it's bright; you get your sunglasses out of your briefcase and ava grins up at you.

'well, will you let me take care of your dry-cleaning for your jacket as a thank you, at least?'

'i — it's my job. no need to thank me.'

'you have a dry cleaner you like, huh?'

you grimace. 'i do.'

ava's laugh is bright. 'okay, fine. but, dinner?'

when you hesitate, he reaches to touch your hand, just for a moment.

'i'm trying to ask you out. so, let me? if you want?'

you open your bag and get out a business card, quickly write your personal number on the back, and then hand it to her. 'dinner sounds wonderful, ava.'

//

3

you button and unbutton the top clasp on your perfectly pressed collared shirt, then run a hand over your hair that you buzz every week, precise and just how you like it. you’re not supposed to fidget but it’s no use: you set to retying your apron for the fifth time, and then somehow feel regret for the one small, stupid tattoo of a pringle you got, just above your elbow, blackout drunk, on a dare on your twenty-third birthday, even though it's definitely not noticeable among the rest of the tattoos that fill out your sleeve.

lilith scoffs. 'chef,' she says, already a bad start because lilith never calls you that unless it’s at the beginning of an insult. she leans casually against the perfectly clean counter. 'you don't even have hair to mess with, your shirt looks gay, the pringle is admittedly funny, and your apron is as boring and perfect as ever.'

'i have never seen you in the kitchen in anything but a black apron.' it's both incomplete and petulant, unfortunately, and only makes her smile bigger, teeth bared.

'you have a crush.'

'i have never in my life have a crush.’

lilith raises a brow.

‘besides, i don't have time.'

she rolls her eyes. 'that's a shallow excuse. i'm sleeping with no less than three people at any given time.'

you pinch the bridge of your nose; you feel a headache coming on.

'fine,' lilith relents, easier than normal, probably because you both are exhausted; opening a restaurant — even though you'd been the chef de cuisine at superion's before this, with its three michelin stars — is more work than you could've imagined. 'well, i'm going to go do literally anything other than witness you continue to be terrible at flirting, especially with ava. don't do anything i wouldn't do.'

'don't think that crosses too much off the list,' you say, and lilith laughs.

'night, beatrice.'

you wave in her direction as she heads out and check on the stewed lamb you'd been simmering — delicate, full of your favorite spices and scallions and cilantro. it's not fancy, not something you would serve on the menu — not in the same way, at least — but it's comforting. it's cold outside, and you hear the front door bang open and then a shit, fuck, sorry from the woman who is pretty quickly becoming your favorite person in the world.

'i'm in the kitchen,' you call out, which is probably unnecessary.

ava pokes her head in, windblown and red-cheeked, unwrapping her scarf, her hair half-out of its bun — beautiful. 'wouldn't expect you to be anywhere else,' she says, grinning. ‘you do leave sometimes though, right?’

ava doesn’t bother waiting for your answer. he snags a piece of a carrot you'd so painstakingly julienned by hand and pops it into her mouth, still smiling, and then comes to stand beside you while you do your best to not burst out of your skin. he puts his hand on the small of your back and her chin on your shoulder to peek over at the pot. 'hi,' she says, leans into you a little more. 'this smells incredible.'

it takes you a second to find your voice. 'it's the cumin.' you settle yourself. 'this is one of my favorite comfort foods,' you say, not much but, still, not nothing. and, like always, in a measure of grace, ava lights up at the offering.

'i can't wait to try it. thank you,' she says, so sincere, 'for making it for me.'

'i'm sure you have very important chefs making you food all the time.'

you feel her frown against your shoulder. 'well, a tasting menu, maybe. but that's work.'

'this isn't work?'

'is this on your menu?'

you resign yourself. 'no,' you admit.

she stands up straight, triumphant. 'exactly. listen, getting your wine pairings right is really important to me, but i'm not — spending time with you isn't work, to me, chef.'

'you can call me beatrice,' you say. and then, a beat: 'you should. it's not work, to make food for you.'

it's love, you know, but you can't bring yourself to say it, not yet.

ava's smile is soft and she nods, backs up and hoists herself up onto the counter behind you. it's a health and safety violation but you aren't actually open yet so you don't say anything, instead just let her kick her boots back and forth in the air a few times and shake her hair out of its less-than-successful bun. you turn to offer her a spoonful of the stew to try, hold your hand carefully underneath it, and bring it to her lips. she closes her eyes and then moans. 'beatrice,' she says, 'i swear to god, who i believe in now that that's been in my mouth — don't make a joke about that, okay — that is the best thing i've ever tasted in my whole entire life.'

it's so exuberant and genuine you can't do anything but laugh. 'an insult to the rest of my food, then.'

ava laughs too, hops down from the counter. 'no,' she says, 'all of your food is incredible. this is just —' she shakes her head, easy curls around her face.

'warm,' you say. 'it feels warm, right?'

ava tilts her head, eyes bright and soft. 'yeah. yeah, it does.'

you feel untethered, so you turn back to your food: perfect, and perfectly timed — like always, like you've never allowed yourself to stray from. maybe one day you'll be at home with ava, after a sleepy morning when your restaurant is up and running on its own, after you've let her cut your hair for you, after you've said vows in a garden and laughed when you fed each other cake — maybe one day she'll kiss you in the kitchen and you'll burn the eggs.

but for now: 'i brought something.'

'hmm?'

she fishes around in her bag. 'okay, we definitely can't put this on the menu, but i brought something i've wanted to open for a long time.'

ava hands you a bottle of wine, deep red and rich, and when you read the label you have to force yourself to not audibly gasp. 'leroy domaine d'auvenay les bonnes-mares grand cru?' you read the entire thing aloud like some sort of prayer, but ava understands.

'the 1993.'

'ava,' you say, 'this is an eight-thousand dollar bottle of wine.'

'sure,' he says, shrugging like it's inconsequential, like it's an offering that she's never second-guessed. '$8716, to be exact. but it was a gift, no worries.'

'i can — should i make something different? i have a beautiful a5 wagyu ribeye —'

'you made me something warm you love.' she smiles gently. 'i don't want anything else.'

'you're sure?'

'a cab is perfect with lamb, you know.'

'i do — yes, i know that.'

ava laughs at how seriously you confirmed. 'plus, i want to share it with you.'

all you can do is smile, really, small and private and into the collar of your shirt. you get down your favorite bowls — you had picked every single one by hand — and then carefully ladle some stew into them. you dress your favorite light fall salad and get out wine glasses and a bottle opener.

'do you want to sit in the restaurant, or just eat back here?'

'my back is solid today,' ava says, 'so let's eat in here. i know you like it, you weirdo.'

you roll your eyes but really you just want to kiss her. she chatters on about her day and very unceremoniously uncorks the wine, your heart skipping a beat because — 'is this going to be the best wine i ever have in my life?'

'i sure hope not,' ava says, grinning at you. 'because that would mean i've really got a very long, very boring career ahead of me if i max out now.'

you grant her a nod: it's how you feel about getting to eat some of the best food in the world.

she pours the wine and then hands you a glass; you watch, mesmerized, as she holds the glass up and looks at the deep, perfect red with a little bit of awe on her face. she brings the glass to her nose and you follow suit.

'the body on this is so beautiful,' she says. 'do you smell the peppercorn?'

you don't, not really, but she's so incredible you just nod.

'alright,' she says, smiling at you, and then raises her glass to toast. you do with a quiet, careful clink. 'to you, and this wonderful place.'

her kindness — constant, gentle, overwhelming, always welcome — fills you up. you both take small sips of the wine, and she swirls it around her mouth and then swallows. her eyes flutter closed and, even though this is definitely the best wine you've ever had in your life, you can't even think about it, can't look away.

she puts her glass down and wipes genuine tears, then laughs. 'okay, on to the lamb, then!'

you let yourself laugh too, let her feel emotional about something she loves without any judgement or recourse; you've cried over food more times than you can count, even lilith's — you're taking that to your grave.

ava takes a large spoonful of the stew and then groans when she swallows, wipes her mouth with a perfectly starched white napkin. 'holy shit, bea.'

the stew is wonderful, although you'd never say that aloud. 'yeah?'

'god, yes.' she lays her hand on top of yours — hers, with its smooth skin, unbroken; yours, scars from years spent in kitchens, one tattoo stretching up from your wrist. 'you're incredible. i hope you know that.'

you look down at your fingers, twine them together. you haven't even kissed her so you swallow down the words — but even that's warm, like the wine and stew, because one day you'll get to say them. you mean them already. 'thank you, ava. it has been — it has been a genuine gift to get to work with you.'

'not many can elevate your food so fantastically, can they?' she says, taking her hand away and pouring you both more wine, groaning again when she takes a bite of her salad.

you scoff but it's with a smile you can't wipe off your face. 'who even gave you this wine?'

'the pope.'

'no way.'

she laughs, loud and bright. 'definitely not, but i bet that threw you for a loop.'

you're sure you're flushed — from the wine, from the food, from ava — but you don't dignify that with a response.

'dominique crenn, actually. i helped with her wedding.'

'no fucking way.'

'better than the pope, huh?'

'way better.'

'don't you know her?'

you do, but — 'still way better.'

ava laughs. 'i think she had a little crush on me. i'm charming, what can i say?'

you roll your eyes. 'do all the chefs have a crush on you?'

ava grins. 'depends.' she leans forward, into your space, and you can't breathe. 'do you?'

you won't admit to having a crush, not aloud. you've worked all over the world in some of the most prestigious, intense kitchens. your hands have always been steady.

they shake now, but it doesn't matter when you bring one to ava's jaw and close your eyes and kiss her. she smiles into your mouth — you can feel it — and you taste the spices in the stew and the peppercorn in the wine and it's warm, everywhere.

//

4

'jesus fuck, beatrice,' ava says, her hands tugging on your hair as you settle between her legs. you kiss up her thigh and she squirms. and, like, maybe it's not the most ethical thing, but your clients are in europe and the kitchen ava designed really is beautiful. you'd put in the marble earlier this morning, finally finishing the toughest room of the project, and ahead of schedule at that.

when ava had come to see, you'd already sent the rest of your crew home for the day — admittedly, in a little bit of the hope that ava would, in fact, want to do exactly this — and so when she'd seen you in your cutoff tank and toolbelt slung low on your hips, you'd known exactly what you'd hoped for was, in fact, probably (definitely) going to happen.

'god,' ava says, her fingers in your hair verging on painful, desperate for you to stop teasing. she loves it, though, and so you pull back and shush her.

'be good for me, baby. be patient.'

'you saying that to me is not going to help,' she says, her head thrown back, and you can't help but laugh.

'this house is so gorgeous.'

'yes, yes, i'm a brilliant architect. let's revisit that after my orgasm.'

'you've already come three times.'

'you're my fiancé — don't want you me to come for a fourth?' she relaxes her hands, though, and smooths one through your hair, rests it along your jaw sweetly.

'i do want that,' you say. 'i also know how much you love teasing.'

she groans.

'but, for you, i'll make this concession.'

you redouble your efforts and ava is so sensitive it doesn't take long before she's coming again in your mouth, quiet this time, a release. she tugs you up after a few seconds and then wraps her arms around you; you settle between her legs and she rests her head on your chest.

'we should do that more often.'

you laugh. 'we have sex fairly often.'

'sure, but we're used to our kitchen. this was fun.'

'this was fun,' you say, back up a little so you can brush some hair from her eyes, sweaty strands from her forehead. you soothe a thumb over her cheekbone and lean to kiss her softly.

'can you believe we're going to be wives soon?'

it's been four years of loving her, since the first time you got hired onto one of the houses she'd designed; the first time you worked up the courage to set up a small picnic in a half-finished living room, timbers around and the sunset quiet and orange in the background, it had felt like all the disparate pieces of your world slid into place — ease, and peace, and happiness. you work with your hands all the time, rough with calluses, but you know have always wanted to be gentle. ava's smile lights up the room; it always has.

'yeah,' you say, 'i love you. i can't wait to marry you.'

she kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then your pulse point, and sneaks a hand down your chest, your stomach, to unbutton your work pants. 'i can't wait to marry you either,' she tells you, voice low and full of want, as her fingers brush the waistband of your boxers.

you nod, whisper the most coherent yes you can muster, and then she's touching you just how you love. the room is bathed in light.

//

5

you hop the fence easily, landing quietly on the other side and rolling to your feet, shooting ava a thumbs up that she may or may not be able to see in the dark. you set your bag down near the edge of the pool and then hurry to the gate, open it as quietly as you can so ava can come through.

she does, not bothering to be quiet at all, laughing delightedly. when you shush her, she just rolls her eyes. 'don't be such a buzzkill, bea,' she says. 'you, like, superhero scaled that fence. have a little fun.'

'i don't want to get in trouble.'

she looks at you skeptically. 'then why are we doing something illegal?'

'you're a bad influence.'

she scoffs, pushing her chair close to the edge of the community pool. it's the middle of the night, so there's no one around, no guards or security. 'i'm a wonderful influence.' she glances over her shoulder, motions for you to come closer. 'plus, you're, like, perfect. not even mother superion has any grounds to fuck with you.'

it's an unspoken truth, then, maybe: you don't want ava to get in trouble. but she genuinely doesn't seem worried about that. instead, she just takes her shirt off and then lifts herself to take her shorts off too, leaving her in her underwear. she waggles her brows at you and you do your absolute level best to not look at her chest, or the apex of her thighs, the soft skin and dark hair there. but you're only seventeen, and it's really hard not to, so you busy yourself with taking your shirt off too, try to fight down any embarrassment or discomfort you have in your binder.

but ava just smiles and squeezes your hand. 'i know you promised me skinny dipping, but why don't you leave your binder on? it counts.'

you don't want to fucking cry on this intrepid — and definitely mildly illegal — adventure ava had begged you to go on for her birthday, so you just duck your head. 'yeah?'

'definitely,' ava says. 'like, it's who you are, first of all, and anyway, when we're older, and you've had surgery, then you can take your shirt off, you know?'

'we're still gonna be skinny-dipping together then?'

'of course,' ava says with a laugh, as if there could be no other option for the rest of your lives but to spend them with one another, two years from now right after you’d had top surgery; twenty years from that — it doesn’t matter. you're young, and you've been hurt; you had nowhere to go a few months ago, when your parents had kicked you out with one duffel bag of your stuff. you had spent a few nights sleeping at the park but eventually you needed to shower, and you needed food. when you had — with a deep, deep cloud of shame — talked to your school advisor, shannon, who you trust implicitly with everything, she had directed you to this program, a group home for unhoused queer and trans youth. ava's been there a while, getting out of a horrible foster home she'd been in, and mother superion — kind without any pity; stern — had shown you your bed on the side of your shared room. you had smiled because ava had made you a clumsy little sign with your name on it and some stickers. you'd talked all night, and it wasn't hard to notice that she was beautiful, and funny, and really, really smart. it wasn't hard to want to be her friend. it wasn't hard, not at all, to love her.

you nod and steady yourself, take off your jeans without tipping over. 'i'd like that.'

ava grins. 'good,' she says. you help her, quietly and without any fanfare, transfer out of her chair to sit on the edge of the pool; you'd been practicing for weeks. she's had hard days, where her hands are cramping badly, or when her body wasn't regulating its temperature properly, but mother superion had been careful and urgent in making sure ava got everything she needed. ava had asked you one night, after a bad day, if you saw her any differently after it, and it was easy to tell her no, to tell her that she is who she is, and the person you've grown to know and love is whole and complete and annoying and amazing. they were easy words to come by, even if you were a little worried you'd say something wrong: you needed to say them. she needed to know.

the trees around you sway in the warm late spring breeze and the night is dark and full of stars. you spend a lot of time doing nothing with her, and it's fuller than your life has ever been. you watch, mesmerized too much to hide it, as ava unhooks her bra and lets it fall from her shoulders. her eyes are big and inky-dark when she looks up at you, and your heart feels like it's beating out of your chest. you do the only thing you can think of in the moment, which is to canonball into the pool as forcefully as you can, which feels absolutely ridiculous halfway through but when you come up for air, ava is laughing and smiling and beautiful.

'that's your reaction to my boobs?'

'shut up,' you say, ducking under the water in your embarrassment. but when you inevitably have to resurface, ava is looking at you so softly. she holds her hands out and you swim over to her, make sure you're only in the shallow end so you'll be able to hold her up without any problems.

it's too much, when her body is pressed against yours and there's the moon and the way her teeth look. you feel her, everywhere, and you're horrified you might start crying, which you'd never ever live down. but ava can tell, and so she splashes you and then you're splashing each other, leading her over to the steps so she can sit and you can swim a little. eventually, you both tire, and you go through a practiced plan of making sure you can safely get ava out of the pool too. it goes off without a hitch and you dry off and slip your clothes back on, then sit at one of the small rickety tables set up by the pool, grass wet under your feet. you fish out a cupcake from your bag, slightly squished but red velvet, so ava definitely won't care. you get out a 1 and a 6 candle and put them in the top frosting, and then a light them with a match from a matchbox you'd gotten from lilith, which cost you two lunches and bathroom duty for a week but, for this moment, the way ava's face lights up in the small flames, it's worth it. it's so, so worth it.

'make a wish.'

ava closes her eyes, tight, for a few seconds, then blows out the candles. you insist she gives you the smaller half of the cupcake, and then you eat with your fingers, frosting everywhere, ava laughing the whole time.

you sit back and look up at the sky. 'i'm so glad i met you,' you say.

she's quiet. 'thank you, for this.'

i love you, you want to say. i think i'm too young to love you this way but i don't care. i will love you this way forever. thank you for loving me. i want to kiss you so bad i think i might die. 'happy birthday, ava.'

she winds your fingers together and it all smells like chocolate and chlorine. she kisses the top of your hand and then smiles, soft and only for you.

//

+

you hear ava from down the street, up the stairs, in the front door, and, finally, poking her head out the window where you're reading on the fire escape. you'll have to work more on your stealth training, you make a mental note.

'why are you up so late?' she asks, squirming out and then pestering enough that you scoot over so she can sit too. you can hear the halo's faint hum from here, which means that ava is probably a little drunk. she's so close and she smiles at you like you're the only person in the whole world.

you can't tell her that you can't sleep when she's not here, that you don't give a fuck about the halo most of the time other than that it's what's keeping her alive, it's what's needs to be kept safe so she can stay that way. you can't tell her that you missed her, even though she drives you crazy all day. you can't tell her any of it.

she doesn't mind, though; she's had too many shots and is also just too fond of you to be upset. she puts her chin on your shoulder. 'what are you reading?'

you flip to the front of the book so she can see the cover.

'oh, space. cool.'

'you can read it after me, if you like.'

'thanks, bea.'

'sure.'

'thought you might not believe in all this stuff, you know.'

'what stuff?'

she shrugs.

'science? space?'

'well, the beliefs you do have to hold are pretty weird. you're a gay nun and i'm like, i don't know, hot bi jesus. and there are demons? anti-angels, or something? wild.'

'i can't not believe in space, ava. that's impossible.'

ava just grins.

you sigh. 'i care to know how things works, and i care to know where harmful systems of people and power have told us otherwise.'

ava puzzles through it for a second. 'this is about you being gay?'

it's said so genuinely you can't do anything other than bark out a laugh, which makes ava dissolve into a fit of giggles and then hold up her hand. 'sorry, sorry. i'm drunk but i really meant, like — i care, you know. it's not a small thing.'

you shake your head a little, will the tears burning your eyes to not fall. you clear your throat and turn to a page you'd read and reread.

'there’s a variation of the ever-popular multiverse idea in which the multiple universes that comprise it are not separate universes entirely, but isolated, non-interacting pockets of space within one continuous fabric of space-time—' you read to her 'like multiple ships at sea, far enough away from one another so that their circular horizons do not intersect. As far as any one ship is concerned (without further data), it’s the only ship on the ocean, yet they all share the same body of water.'

she's quiet for a while. 'do you think,' she whispers, 'that we know each other in all of them?'

it's late and ava is drunk and you say things you mean, when it's like this. when the rest of the world is asleep and there's ava's perfume and the mountains. you say the truth quietly: 'i can't imagine my universe doesn't have you in it.'

she swallows and it's not fair, to love her so clearly. but she soldiers on: 'because i'm so cool and, additionally, hot?'

'something like that.'

'i bet in another universe you're, like, a chef or something.'

it's a shift, and a bright one, pulling light out of nowhere like ava can always do. you think the halo chose her because she's the brightest person you know. surely god knew too. surely god has felt her. 'why? i'm horrible at cooking.'

'yes. you're also horrible at using your imagination.'

you roll your eyes.

'well, honestly, you're good with knives but mostly i think it would be hot. yes, chef, and all that.'

you can't do anything but laugh. 'you're certainly a troublemaker in all of them.'

'yeah, fuck the cops. fuck the state. fuck the man. anarchy forever. god is trans.'

'see?' you say. 'exactly.'

ava grins. 'good trouble, i'm sure of it.'

you feel it: kids and jobs and weddings to stress over and marriages to love, the whole world to learn. you feel her, everywhere. it’s faith and it’s truth: 'i'm glad we have good, exciting lives in the other universes.'

'of course we do.' she leans her head on your shoulder. 'and, right here, i have you, and this horrible little apartment, and all these stars.'

you kiss the top of her head, then clench your jaw. it doesn't work to stop your tears this time, and ava picks up her head and wipes them tenderly with her thumbs, her face close enough you can take in the little scar over her eyebrow, faded, and the perfect bow of her lips.

'ava, i —'

'yeah,' she says. 'i know, bea.'

'maybe someday, in this life. we'll live by the beach and hang out in the sun.'

'hang out?' she says, but she's crying too.

you shrug. 'time, with you. in all of the places i exist, that's all i want. i'm sure of it.'

ava brings her arms around you to wrap you in a hug. 'in this life too, yeah?'

'yes. in this life too.'

ava sits back, her grace evident even now. 'even when i'm using up all the hot water?'

'yes, ava. even then.'

she starts to fade, clearly, and so you help her inside and then quietly get ready for bed together. you climb in, the sheets cool against your skin at first, and then warm. ava has always been braver than you; she turns so that your faces are close. 'time with you is all i want too, by the way.'

you nod, stretch your hand out, palm up — supplication — and she rests hers on top of it. 'goodnight, ava.'

'sleep well, bea.'

you stare at the stars outside the window, infinite. ships in the night. you hold her life in your hand as you fall asleep; you dream:

[highlordofkrypton]

Archeron's Anatomy - Dr. Amarantha's Specialization?

Continuing the collective story building for @tamlinweek and the Grey's Anatomy inspired drama-filled fic, time to poll for another important character. No spoilers on what her role will be in the story.

So far, we have:

Dr. Tamlin "McSteamy" - Chief of Cadiothoracic Surgery

Dr. Thesan - Chief of General Surgery

Dr. Rhysand "McDreamy" - Chief of Neurosurgery

Dr. Cassian - Orthopedic Surgeon

Dr. Amren - Surgical Resident

Dr. Feyre Archeron - Surgical Intern

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Apunaja

Published: Mar 19, 2024

I just watched this clip of Don Lemon interviewing Elon Musk, where Lemon pushed back on Musk’s claims of DEI policies impacting the quality of medical care and insisted that there is no evidence that standards are being lowered in medical programs in the pursuit of diversity goals. It was infuriating to watch. The word ‘gaslighting’ repeatedly came to mind.

I don’t know if Lemon genuinely doesn’t know the facts about this issue, or if he is deliberately misrepresenting the inconvenient truth, but as anyone who has been paying attention to this issue can attest, it is indisputable that standards are indeed being lowered, in myriad professional and educational contexts, for the express purpose of increasing the racial diversity of that group’s membership. What makes it hard to believe that Lemon isn’t being disingenuous about this is that in so many of the cases where this is happening, the proponents of the policy openly state that the reason they are changing their standards are in order to increase representation of minorities. Of course, they don’t call it “lowering standards for diversity”. But when you get rid of a testing requirement, or lower the passing grade, or modify the entrance qualifications to deliberately allow lower performing black and Hispanic students entrance, you are by definition lowering standards for the sake of diversity and equity, no matter how you spin it.

It’s high time for the false claim that ‘promoting DEI doesn’t adversely impact standards’ to finally be put to rest. In the interview, Lemon said he looked forward to people providing evidence of the claim, so I’m going to attempt to do that here, to lay out unambiguous evidence of educational and professional standards being compromised for the sake of DEI. I’m going to first focus on the area of medicine, which is what Lemon was specifically talking about, and then I’ll get into many other arenas where we can see this happening.

In a 2022 City Journal article, the esteemed Heather Mac Donald describes a required medical exam being altered (both in its subject matter and its grading) to allow for more students to pass:

At the end of their second year of medical school, students take Step One of the USMLE, which measures knowledge of the body’s anatomical parts, their functioning, and their malfunctioning; topics include biochemistry, physiology, cell biology, pharmacology, and the cardiovascular system. High scores on Step One predict success in a residency; highly sought-after residency programs, such as neurosurgery and radiology, use Step One scores to help select applicants. Black students are not admitted into competitive residencies at the same rate as whites because their average Step One test scores are a standard deviation below those of whites. Step One has already been modified to try to shrink that gap; it now includes non-science components such as “communication and interpersonal skills.” But the standard deviation in scores has persisted. In the world of antiracism, that persistence means only one thing: the test is to blame. …The solution … was obvious: abolish Step One grades. Since January 2022, Step One has been graded on a pass-fail basis.

Further in the article, she explores how med school entrance standards have been adjusted to increase the number of minority students entering even though their grades were far lower:

In 2021, the average score for white applicants on the Medical College Admission Test was in the 71st percentile… The average score for black applicants was in the 35th percentile—a full standard deviation below the average white score. The MCATs have already been redesigned to try to reduce this gap; a quarter of the questions now focus on social issues and psychology. Yet the gap persists. So medical schools use wildly different standards for admitting black and white applicants. From 2013 to 2016, only 8% of white college seniors with below-average undergraduate GPAs and below-average MCAT scores were offered a seat in medical school; less than 6% of Asian college seniors with those qualifications were offered a seat, according to an analysis by economist Mark Perry. Medical schools regarded those below-average scores as all but disqualifying—except when presented by blacks and Hispanics. Over 56% of black college seniors with below-average undergraduate GPAs and below-average MCATs and 31% of Hispanic students with those scores were admitted, making a black student in that range more than seven times as likely as a similarly situated white college senior to be admitted to medical school and more than nine times as likely to be admitted as a similarly situated Asian senior.

Later on she recounts a further example of reducing standards to increase diversity at a top-tier institution:

The University of Pennsylvania medical school guarantees admission to black undergraduates who score a modest 1300 on the SAT (on a 1600-point scale), maintain a 3.6 GPA in college, and complete two summers of internship at the school. The school waives its MCAT requirement for these black students; UPenn’s non-preferred medical students score in the top one percent of all MCAT takers.

The article details many more examples of diversity efforts impacting the quality of the curriculum, admissions, faculty hiring, research funding, accreditation, publishing, and other aspects of the medical education arena. I strongly encourage you to read it in full here.

But where did all these changes stem from? A 2020 Quillette article reveals how these policies were a result of a long-running campaign to increase diversity:

…in 2009 the body that accredits medical schools, the Liaison Committee on Medical Education (LCME), touched off a parity panic across the med school landscape by issuing stern new guidance on diversity. In order to remain accredited, declared LCME, medical schools “must” have policies and practices in place that “achieve appropriate diversity.” …In the wake of the LCME’s watershed edict, working groups were convened, budget line items were created, and high-profile hires were made to facilitate diversity boosting and community recruitment. A main stumbling block seemed to be minority candidates’ poor performance on gatekeeper exams like the MCATs.

Once the unstoppable force of diversity activism met the immovable object of disparate MCAT scores, activists focused their efforts on reducing the MCAT’s significance and incorporating tests that were not based on cognitively demanding subjects like actual medical knowledge in favor of things like emotional intelligence, empathy, and communication:

The primary selling point of SJTs was thus that they allowed schools to consider factors other than such blind metrics as a straightforward ranking of applicants’ college grades and MCAT performance. The MCATs themselves were revised in 2015 to give meaningful weight to areas of the social sciences.

The amazing thing about all this is how, if you just listen to their own words, these activists are totally open about how they need to lower the standards to increase minority representation. Here’s one such statement from an advocacy group admitting that expecting minority students to meet the same academic standards everyone else is held to holds back diversity:

…a huge obstacle to diversity is that most medical schools have the same criteria for all applicants. To get a medical student population that is representative of the general population requires more than simply accepting applicants of color who have the same grades and MCAT scores as White applicants…

Their solution? Lessen the importance of the MCAT in applications.

While on the topic of medical schools, consider this chart, highlighting the likelihood that students in different racial groups are granted entrance to medical schools, based on their grades. It echoes Mac Donald’s claims above, and indisputably reveals that a low performing student has a much higher chance of getting in when they’re black versus being any other race.

Another way of looking at that same data is in this chart:

This 2023 Newsweek op-ed unambiguously advocates for the MCAT to be abolished as an entrance requirement in order to increase diversity:

A panel representing the American Bar Association (ABA) recently voted to eliminate the LSAT as an admissions requirement for law schools. The main reason for doing this: to increase diversity in law schools. The Association of American Medical Colleges (AAMC) should follow the lead of the ABA for medical school admissions by removing the Medical College Admission Test (MCAT) as a requirement.

Here’s a similar Washington Post piece proposing that the MCAT be changed to a pass/fail test. Why? In the author’s own words: “This is a crucial step if the medical profession is to diversify its physician ranks.”

There are further examples that could be provided, but I think this suffices to prove Elon’s claim. Copious examples of deliberate efforts to lower standards in medical education for the express purpose of increasing diversity. Mr. Lemon, do you find this evidence sufficient to acknowledge that Elon’s assertion was correct?

But it gets worse. As I said above, the problem of lowering educational and professional standards to increase diversity is not just an issue in the medical field. Campaigns pursuing this agenda are occurring all over society. Mr. Lemon, please bear with me a bit longer and allow me to provide further evidence of just how widespread this phenomenon actually is:

1. In Oregon, the state decided that students don’t need to prove mastery of reading, writing or math to graduate, citing harm to students of color. This a result of a law passed in 2021 which the governor’s office explained as follows:

…suspending the reading, writing and math proficiency requirements while the state develops new graduation standards will benefit “Oregon’s Black, Latino, Latina, Latinx, Indigenous, Asian, Pacific Islander, Tribal, and students of color.”

2. In order to address "racial disparities" and "inequities" in grading, Portland Public Schools are trying "equitable grading practices" that bar teachers from assigning "zeros" to students who cheat or fail to turn in assignments.

3. In Minnesota, they’ve decided to stop giving F grades in order to “end systemic racism”.

4. In San Diego, because too many minority students were failing compared to white students, the school decided to address the problem not by improving the pedagogy but by… changing how they graded students. “The grading changes are part of a larger effort to combat racism,” they explained.

5. NJ chose to lower the minimum passing score on the state’s high school graduation test. Why? Among other reasons given was this appeal to diversity:

One board member who supported lowering the passing score suggested that it was “unfair” to “Black and Latino students” to require underperforming students to demonstrate a higher level of proficiency in reading and math before graduating.

6. In Arizona, a student dean felt that it would “promote equity” if he stopped grading students essays based on the quality of their writing. (This sounds similar to an effort by a student org that called for ‘Black Linguistic Justice’ and demanded that they not be graded by the standards of ordinary English, what they referred to as ‘white linguistic supremacy’. 🤷‍♂️)

7. Along similar lines, Rutgers decided to deemphasize traditional grammar ‘in solidarity with Black Lives Matter’.

8. It’s not just the US embracing this insanity. In the UK, instructors at Hull University were told to overlook students’ grammatical errors as part of an “inclusive marking policy”. And for a similar reason, the University of the Arts in London has told its staff to ‘actively accept spelling, grammar or other language mistakes that do not significantly impede communication’.

9. Please read this detailed article at The Free Press about the new California math initiative that sacrifices mathematical education for diversity goals. This new framework seems primarily motivated by concerns that too many students are sorted into different math tracks based on their natural abilities, which leads some to take calculus by their senior year of high school while a disproportionate number of black and Latino kids don't make it past basic algebra. So their solution is to prohibit any sorting until high school, keeping gifted kids in the same classrooms as their less mathematically inclined peers until at least grade nine.

10, Those same lowered math standards are being implemented in Cambridge, MA:

Udengaard is one of dozens of parents who recently have publicly voiced frustration with a years-old decision made by Cambridge to remove advanced math classes in grades six to eight. The district’s aim was to reduce disparities between low-income children of color, who weren’t often represented in such courses, and their more affluent peers.

11. In order to advance their DEI agenda, the creators of the bar exam are changing the famously difficult tests that lawyers have to pass before they are allowed to practice. How are they doing so? In their own words (emphasis added):

…we take seriously the need to work toward greater equity in all that we do as a testing organization, and we actively work to eliminate any aspects of our exams that could contribute to performance disparities among different groups.

A WSJ article investigating these changes reports:

Based on the diversity workshop at the NCBE conference, it means putting considerable emphasis on examinees’ race, sex, gender identity, nationality and other identity-based characteristics. The idea seems to be that any differences in group outcomes must be eliminated—even if the only way to achieve this goal is to water down the test. On top of all that, an American Civil Liberties Union representative provided conference attendees with a lecture on criminal-justice reform in which he argued that states should minimize or overlook would-be lawyers’ convictions for various criminal offenses in deciding whether to admit them to the bar.

12. Of course, the obvious question presents itself: why bother changing the bar exam to allow more people to pass it if you can just get rid of it entirely? And that’s exactly what some states are doing. Just a few days ago, the State of Washington decided to no longer require lawyers to pass the bar exam. Why? It was hampering diversity.

The Bar Licensure Task Force found that the traditional exam “disproportionally and unnecessarily blocks” marginalized groups from becoming practicing attorneys and is “at best minimally effective” for ensuring competency.

13. The Washington State decision follows in the footsteps of Oregon, which stopped requiring the bar exam last year.

14. Taking the bar happens at the end of a law student’s journey. What about at the beginning, when they are taking the LSAT? No worries, diversity initiatives are lowering the bar there too! The American Bar Association voted in 2022 to stop requiring the LSAT for admission to law school. Why?

“In the grand scheme of things, folks of color perform less well on the LSAT than not, and for that reason, I think we are headed in the right direction,” Leo Martinez, an ABA council member and dean emeritus at University of California, Hastings College of the Law, said at the meeting.

15. In related legal arenas, Delaware chose to improve the diversity of its legal community by instituting a few changes of its own. Some of the changes, “which ultimately aim to also increase the number of Black and Latino judges”, include lowering the passing grade, halving the number of essays, and other competency requirements being relaxed.

16. Similar changes have happened in California, for the explicitly stated reason of increasing diversity:The California Supreme Court, which oversees the state bar, agreed to lower the passing score for the exam, a victory for law school deans who have long hoped the change would raise the number of Black and Latino people practicing law.

17. A 2015 NY Times headline: Study Cites Lower Standards in Law School Admissions. Why are they lowering standards? Answer: “…they need flexibility in selecting students to assure a diverse population of lawyers.”

18. Just like with med schools, law school acceptance rates are biased towards minorities. An analysis of admissions data data revealed that being from an under represented minority group (URM) boosted one’s chance of acceptance to a law school quite dramatically:

Almost every school we cover shows an increased chance of admission to URM applicants, with higher boosts for higher-tiered schools….As you can see in Table 1a, law schools typically give a 7% boost to URM applicants. In other words, a URM applicant who is exactly equal to a non-URM candidate, including all other factors we control for, is 7% more likely to be admitted to any law school than a non-URM equivalent. This number is a whopping 498% in the Top 14, 126% in the Top 25, and 52% in the Top 50 law schools.

Just as is happening in the legal and medical arenas, the practice of increasing minority numbers by eliminating entrance exams that ensure professional competency is happening in other professions too. Some examples of that:

19. In Washington, DC, officials considered getting rid of their social work exam over concerns that it failed too many people of color.

20. A required test for math teacher certification in Ontario showed significant racial disparities in the success rates of those taking it. As a result of the disparity a court ruled it unconstitutional and teachers were no longer required to take it. (The ruling has since been overturned.)

21. A similar case occurred in NY whereby prospective teachers had to take an Academic Literacy Skills Test. But because disproportionate numbers of black and Hispanic applicants failed it, the test was eliminated.

22. In a similar lawsuit, NYC had to pay out $1.8 billion to former teachers who failed a certification test. Why? The test was deemed racially biased since a disproportionate number of the failures came from minority teachers.

23. In 2015 the FDNY was pressured to modify its certification requirements to increase gender diversity, and for the first time ever passed a woman who failed a physical test that until then all fire-fighter applicants needed to pass.

Fire Commissioner Daniel Nigro told a City Council hearing on the FDNY’s efforts to recruit women that he had changed FST requirements to lower obstacles.

24. A few months ago, a fascinating article appeared on this very platform exposing how the FAA deliberately lowered the testing requirements of flight controllers for the express purpose of increasing diversity. The consequences for the industry were, unsurprisingly, appalling:

A report on FAA hiring issues found that 70% of CTI administrators agreed that the changes in the process had led to a negative effect on the air traffic control infrastructure. One respondent stated their "numbers [had] been devastated," and the majority agreed that it would severely impact the health of their own programs.

25. Of course, a well-known area where standards have been lowered in the pursuit of DEI is in how colleges have stopped requiring applicants to have taken the SAT. I can’t begin to list all the colleges that have dropped the SAT entrance requirements in the name of equity (although many hid the decision behind the excuse of Covid), but according to this list, it’s over a thousand schools. A few prominent names that instituted the policy are Columbia, Yale, Princeton, Stanford, Harvard, MIT, UCLA, and SUNY. (However, in recent months, a few of those institutions have reversed the policy and now require it again.)

26. Among all the many cases where destructive DEI policies are being implemented, possibly the most disturbing arena of all is when actually talented and capable students are purposefully denied opportunities that can help them excel. An example of this in action is the numerous school districts that have chosen to remove “Gifted and Honors” classes for the stated reason of increasing equity. Some examples:

Culver City, CA:

Troy, MI

Barrington, RI

New York and this too

Seattle, WA

Vancouver, Canada

27. If they’re not eliminating the Honors programs entirely, many schools are simply dropping the entrance requirements so that they are open to anyone, thereby diluting their very purpose. Some places this has already happened:

San Francisco

Boston, MA

Montgomery County, MD

New York City

Fairfax, VA

The result of these admission changes? Massive increases in students failing. For example:

…at the John D. O'Bryant School of Mathematics and Science, just 50% of seventh graders met or exceeded expectations in math, down from 85% as recently as 2019. Nor was the Boston Latin School, the crown jewel of the system, immune: Just 70% of seventh graders either met or exceeded expectations in math, down from 94% three years ago.

28. Even the military is affected by demands to lower standards to increase diversity (albeit gender diversity, not racial). The Army actually removed a physical test because not enough women were passing it:

On Monday, the Army ended its requirement that soldiers do at least one leg tuck — where they hang from a bar and pull their knees up near their shoulders — as part of the new physical fitness test, as it became clear that many troops, particularly women, were unable to do it.

29. Speaking of gender diversity, Oxford University decided that because not enough women were passing their math and computer science examinations, they would add more time to the exam to help them. (Apparently, it didn’t even help.)

30. Oxford also decided to let a History test be taken at home in order to increase the number of women passing.

31. And because too many men were getting top grades in a classics course over the women, Oxford also decided they had to overhaul the entire course in order to bridge the gender gap.

32. Across the globe in Australia, the University of Technology Sydney chose to boost their gender diversity by allowing female students to enter its engineering and construction courses with lower grades than the males.

33. Back in 2016, a doctoral student at the University of North Dakota actually published a paper suggesting that STEM courses be made more inclusive of women by making then “less competitive,” so maybe that’s where the above universities got their inspiration from?

34. The lowering of educational standards for the sake of diversity is happening in arts education too. Consider how auditions were scrapped at a Brooklyn performing arts school in favor of a lottery. Why? Diversity!

The Department of Education says standards like auditions — or test scores and grades at other schools — block access for underprivileged kids, and the new policy will diversify student bodies across the district.

The above examples are just a sampling of the many instances of the pernicious trend of DEI deliberately compromising the standards of performance to advance its agenda. Public figures and pundits like Don Lemon need to stop repeating this lie that there is no downside to promoting these policies. On the contrary, it’s imperative that everyone recognize how these Harrison Bergeron-like policies directly lead to a deterioration of our educational outcomes, an undermining of our scientific, technological and medical progress, a diminishing of our professional competencies, and a fraying of our societal cohesion.

It’s time for DEI to DIE.

==

Don 🍋 is astonishingly dumb.

[redheadgleek]

Me picking up a book: oooo, the main character is a neurosurgery resident? This will be great!

Me: wait, why are you calling this a "brain surgery" residency?

Me: wait, why isn't she commiserating with her friend about early mornings? She's going to have to be at the hospital by 5!

Me: she's a second year resident. Internship is only one year.

Me: a fifth year is not a chief resident. Not in neurosurgery.

[emma-m-black]

Doctor White - Chapter One

Tom Koracick x OC (FanFiction)

This is a super rough draft of a Tom Koracick x OC story I've had in my head. I got a ton of chapters done, but then kind of his a block at a cliff hanger and I figure, perhaps if I post it, maybe I can figure out what to do next.

Rating is probably close to PG, don't think there is any spicey bits, pretty tame.

Chapter One:

Elizabeth walked through the halls of Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital in utter astonishment. She was finally here, the Hospital she had dreamed of working at. Tomorrow she would be in her final year of residency.

She could hear the room before she saw it. The sounds of multiple voices attempting to talk over one another as they vied for control over their conversations. She paused before she turned the corner to the staff cafeteria. Reaching down, she rubbed the palms of her hands against the dark velvet fabric of her dress. Elizabeth told herself it was to smooth out the wrinkles, but really it was to dry the sweat from her palms.

"I don't want to go in there either." Spoke a voice from behind her, it jarred her from her thoughts and her already racing heart sped up even more.

"Can you see my pit stains from back there, I had hoped this dress wouldn't show." Elizabeth let out a laugh as she turned around to see who had spoken to her.

A man quite a bit older than her stood before her. Slightly greying hair and a large smirk on his clean-shaven face. "Doctor Thomas Koracick." He began as he stuck out a hand in greeting and approached, "You must be one of the brilliant new Interns?"

"Actually I'm a transferring resident, a smart, brilliant, scared out of my mind, and regretting every moment that led me to being here all of a sudden senior resident." Tom gave a slight chuckle and glanced down to his still waiting hand. "Shit, sorry…, Doctor Elizabeth White, pleasure to meet you." She spoke as she straightened8 her back and reaching out to grasp his hand.

"White? Any relation to Doctor Wilfred White?" Asked Tom.

"Yeah. He is my father."

"I'm sorry." Said Tom, releasing Elizabeth's hand.

"Sorry?" Elizabeth questioned not use to that response when it came to her family legacy.

"That you have to deal with that ego on a daily basis. What was it like growing up with him as a father? I can just imagine what dinners must have been like." Said Tom as his eyes raked over her with a smile. "So were you planning on following in his footsteps."

"Cardio no, I'm interested in Ophthalmology."

The smile on Tom's face dropped. His mouth opened, and then he closed it, seemingly at a loss for words.

Elizabeth let out a laugh. "I'm joking. Neurosurgery is my specialty, the brain is what led me to becoming a surgeon. I had a grade two Atypical Meningioma." Said Elizabeth as she raised the hand and tapped her skull. "Had to learn everything brain related when I was diagnosed, and now all I want is brains. All I think about now is brain tumours."

"Sexy." Tom said with a smile. "The tumour, that is. I'm assuming you've had surgery, and you aren't about to enter your internship with a ticking time bomb?"

"Yeah, I was nineteen at the time."

"Reoccurrence?"

"Radiation treatments after the total resection for good measure. So far, no reoccurrence."

"And you've been keeping up with your scans?"

"Yes."

"Who was your surgeon?"

"Doctor Samuel Gravely."

"Samuel's a quack. I'll find you tomorrow, and we will do a CT, make sure he didn't mess up that legacy of a brain of yours." Tom stepped forward and placed a fist to his hip and extended his elbow toward Elizabeth. "Now come on, I want to start some rumours before your first day."

Elizabeth stared at him with wide eyes, unable to respond to his proposal. "Come on, trust me, it will give you some street cred, all the gossip tomorrow will be about you. Which gives you the advantage of standing out to all the important people." Elizabeth laughed and slipped her arm around his before he walked the two of them into the busy room, the busy room of which a good few people stopped to watch as both her and Doctor Koracick.

She could hear a few whispered words asking who she was and why she was with Doctor Koracick. It was then though that she spotted Doctor Bailey, who had also just seemed to have spotted her.

"Ah, Doctor White, I'm glad you could make it." Miranda said as she approached her. Elizabeth noticed the side eye that was given to Tom as she came to a stop in front of them. "Doctor Koracick, do you two know each other?"

"We've been bonding over her sexy brain tumour." Tom responded.

"Interesting." Miranda narrowed her vision at the older man. "Doctor Webber!"

Elizabeth watched as an older man walk towards her, she knew from her pry into the hospital's staff that this was the Doctor Richard Webber.

When Doctor Webber was in front of them, he eyed Elizabeth suspiciously.

"Doctor Webber, I would like to introduce you to Doctor Elizabeth White. She was the one I told you about."

"White…" Richard spoke as he extended a hand. "Like the Cardio…"

"Yes, Dr. White is my father, Doctor Webber."

"Doctor Bailey told me that she hired a prodigy, but I never thought…" he trailed off.

"I hope I can live up to his reputation."

"I hope not." Said Tom with a smirk on his lips. "He's a prude. No offence." He finished looking to Elizabeth.

"I'm sure we will see great things from Doctor White. She was top of her class at Harvard, and I had to offer her a great deal to get her to leave Duke."

"I would have come regardless." Elizabeth laughed. "This was always my top choice."

"Doctor Koracick, I didn't realize you were still here." Came the happy voice of Amelia Shepherd.

"Yeah, I had allowed for a few extra days to stick around, you know, in case you became a cabbage." As Tom talked, a group started to form around Elizabeth.

"And who is your friend?" Asked Amelia.

Miranda took notice of the people around them and quickly threw a sweeping hand out. "This is our new Senior Resident Doctor, Elizabeth White…" Miranda stretched out the last name, giving everyone time to process what she was saying.

"Wait like…"

"Yes." Miranda said quickly.

"Who…"

"She is his daughter."

"But I thought…"

Miranda waved her hands in the air. "Let's leave the poor girl alone, she can answer all your questions tomorrow. Now go, mingle, all of you. Including you, Doctor Koracick"

Elizabeth extracted her arm from Tom's and placed a hand to his chest instead. "Don't worry, you get to check me out tomorrow." Elizabeth threw a wink at him before walking away towards the drink table.

A dark squint was sent from Miranda to Tom. "Her brain. I'm checking out her brain tomorrow."

"I'm watching you Koracick, I'm watching you."

Chapter Two

[wayfaringmd]

What do family docs do when we don’t know what to do?

Resident Amsterdam, checking out a patient: so I have this lady who recently had some really wonky eye symptoms like intermittent vision loss and ophtho told me to get an MRI and turns out she has a mass pressing on her optic nerve. Neurosurgery says they can’t operate on it here so they’re coordinating with Tertiary Center to manage it.

Wayfaring: wow, so what are you doing for her today?

Amsterdam: I’m just checking her lipids.

Wayfaring: solid. Go family medicine.

Amsterdam: hey, I found the tumor. I’m letting the guys with a higher pay grade manage it.