Chapter Text
“…so, luckily, the bullet did remarkably little damage. He should feel better in a matter of weeks!” A cheerful, unfamiliar voice was the first thing Stiles noticed as he woke up, groggy, worn out, from the anesthesia. “Dr. Whittemore is one of the best young trauma surgeons on the east coast. He’ll be in as soon as Mr. Sommerfeld wakes up to discuss the surgery and his recovery.”
Okay, so, bullet previously existing in his shoulder was removed, great.
Hospitalized, inconvenient.
Dr. Whittemore, huh, wonder if they’re related to Jackson.
Mr. Sommerfeld, Fuck.
Stiles was careful not to make it particularly obvious that he was awake, needing to gather himself before his drugged brain could get him into any trouble. If he was checked into the hospital as Miles Sommerfeld, that probably meant that his cover hadn’t been blown. The upside of course was that an unexpected gang shoot out that had absolutely nothing to do with the operation wasn’t going to blow up two and a half years undercover.
The downfall was –
“Miles? Baby? Nancy, his heart rate jumped up.” Yeah. That.
Stiles had to make a conscious effort not to groan audibly. He blinked his eyes open, focusing first on the ceiling before he gently turned his head to look at the woman at his bedside, forcing the corners of his mouth up in a small smile that he hoped made it to his eyes.
There was nothing wrong exactly with Sofia Federov. She was, as far as daughters of major Russian mob bosses go, a beautiful woman, and remarkably intelligent. She had a quick wit and a good sense of humor and had fallen in love with Stiles’ alter ego fairly quickly, making his integration into the Federov crime family seamless. He was three months out from being done with the operation. Mr. Federov had been slowly trusting Miles, his daughter’s fiancé with more and more responsibilities, which were, of course, all tracked by the FBI. Stiles’ handler had told him just last week that they were going to bring charges in the next few months. (Which was good, because with a wedding scheduled for the beginning of October, things were going to get dicey if they didn’t get Stiles out before then.)
And then he had to go and get shot.
He opened his mouth but promptly closed it, trying to lick his lips but his mouth felt like sandpaper. The nurse, it seemed, understood, and held a cup of water with a straw up to Stiles’ lips, letting him drink for a minute before pulling it away. “How are you feeling, Mr. Sommerfeld?”
“Tired, mostly.” Stiles answered, “How long was I out?”
Sofia squeezed his hand, “You got shot last night, do you remember? They did the surgery first thing this morning to remove the bullet.”
“It’s fuzzy.” Stiles lied, “Are you okay?” He squeezed her hand back, plastering on the most concerned expression he could fathom.
“I am now.” She replied, pushing a lock of his hair away from his face.
A knock sounded from the open door and Stiles looked past Sofia, only to have to consciously school his expression into something neutral. Rafael McCall had drilled him on that one. One day, his expression was going to get him killed if he didn’t get it under control, so Stiles got it under control. “Mr….Sommerfeld?”
Standing in the door to his room, dressed in blue surgical scrubs with a tablet in his hand, hair trimmed neatly, face clean-shaven, was Jackson Whittemore. Or, apparently, Dr. Jackson Whittemore, as his embroidered scrub top proclaimed. “Yeah.” Stiles said, clearing his throat, “That’s me.”
Jackson quirked an eyebrow and Stiles tried, with every ounce of eyebrow and eye-based communication he’d ever learned from the Hales or the FBI, to get Jackson to realize how delicate the situation was. “Have we met?”
Fuck.
“No, I don’t think so.” Stiles said, giving a small, placating smile, “I mean, other than like, an hour ago or whatever. When you dug a bullet out of my shoulder. Does that count as meeting? I’m not sure how you’d define it. Does your patient have to be awake for a doctor to meet them—”
“Miles, I’m sure the doctor has better things to do today than listen to your ramblings.” Sofia gave Stiles a fond smile and leaned over to kiss his cheek, turning back to Jackson, “Sorry, Dr. Whittemore, he’s probably still a little under the influence. He can get rambly sometimes.”
Jackson flicked his eyes between Stiles and Sofia, clearly amused, “I’m sure he can.” He looked down at the tablet, “Surgery went well. You’re lucky, the bullet basically missed everything important. We pulled it out and sent it off to the police for forensics for you. You’ll need a sling for a week or so until the wound closes up, and once you no longer have pain lifting your arm, you can pretty much consider yourself healed. If it takes longer than a month, I’d probably suggest some physical therapy.” Jackson looked up from the tablet, “Do you have any questions, Mr. Sommerfeld?”
Only a million, but none he could answer right now. “No, thanks. I think you covered just about everything.” Stiles lifted his good hand to squeeze Sofia’s shoulder, “As long as I’m all healed up for the wedding, right babe?”
Sofia smiled broadly at him, leaning down to kiss his lips briefly, “Definitely. Daddy would be so mad if he spent that much money on this wedding and you ruined it by getting hurt.”
Jackson chuckled quietly to himself and tapped a few things on the tablet. “Well, then, we’ll keep you here until the afternoon so that we’re sure the anesthesia has completely cleared your system, but you should be home by dinner.” He tucked the tablet under his arm and headed out of the room.
Stiles waited until Jackson was just out of the room – but still totally in ear shot for a werewolf – to turn to Sofia, “Could you go home and get me a fresh change of clothes? Maybe take a nap? You look exhausted babe.”
Sofia – blessedly – agreed, gave Stiles another kiss, and then headed out of the hospital. It only took five minutes for Jackson to return to Stiles’ room, closing the door behind him, and turning to him with narrowed blue eyes. “Do you want to tell me what the fuck is going on?”
Stiles blinked a few times, “I literally cannot.” He said, “All I can say is please don’t say anything to anyone about the fact that you saw me here. I do not exist right now, do you understand me, Jackson?”
Jackson cocked an eyebrow, “What have you gotten yourself into, St—”
“Shut it.” Stiles said quickly, cutting him off, “Please just…don’t. You do not know me from anywhere. You’re not going to even remember that I was here. You did a surgery on Miles Sommerfeld, who you do not know. Am I clear?”
Jackson studied him, and Stiles could see the flare of his nostrils, though probably only because he was used to looking for it. “Okay, on one condition.”
Stiles relaxed back against the pillows, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “What?”
A dangerous smirk made Stiles immediately regret his answer, “When you can tell me, you do so. At a nice restaurant somewhere.” Jackson winked. “Pick somewhere expensive.”
“A date?” Stiles asked, cocking an eyebrow, “I’m sorry, did Jackson Whittemore just blackmail me for a date?”
“That’s Dr. Jackson Whittemore to you.” Jackson said, heading out of the room.
--
The decision, over ten years ago now, to become a doctor instead of a lawyer or a politician or something like his parents expected had felt easy for Jackson. After the disaster that was his first attempt at becoming a werewolf, and the damage he’d done for Matt and Gerard as the kanima, it felt right to save lives instead of take them. Miami was a beautiful city, and Jackson had been surprised by his residency placement down here, but had fallen in love with it and asked to stay. Last year, he’d been hired full time as an attending trauma surgeon, and he’d finally traded his high rise apartment for a house in the suburbs.
Being full time at the hospital, and being the youngest full time attending, and one of only two that were single, meant that Jackson got guilted into taking a lot of shifts he’d usually have off. That had been the case last night, when he’d had to cancel his tinder hookup in favor of covering the ER for a few hours for a doctor whose daughter had a dance recital he’d ‘forgotten about.’ As such, Jackson had actually ended up going to bed much earlier than he would have if he’d gotten laid, and woke up the next morning refreshed.
Running along the boardwalk was a luxury he’d largely given up on after he’d moved away from the beach, but today he drove over, fought for parking, and jogged almost ten miles beside the sand and ocean, thankful for the chance to breathe something other than hospital air. One particularly deep breath, however, brought a scent to him that brought Jackson to a stop, dropping to a seat on the low wall that blocked the beach from the street and looking around.
A pair of keen brown eyes caught his gaze, and Jackson rolled his, but pushed off the wall to cross the street. Stiles was sat at a covered table outside of a beachfront coffee shop with a laptop in front of him and a small black notebook in his lap. A pen was perched between his lips as he looked away from Jackson’s approaching form to click a few things and then close the laptop. “Y’know.” The words caused Stiles to spit the pen out, “I’ve lived in Miami for three years now, and somehow never saw you, and now I’ve seen you twice in two months.”
Jackson shrugged, “How’s your shoulder?” He asked, dropping into the seat across from Stiles. “Mr. Sommerfeld.” He rolled his eyes at the name.
“It’s fine, thanks. I guess my surgeon knew what he was doing.” Stiles had picked the pen back up and was fiddling with it. “Thanks for uh, not saying anything in front of Sofia.” Stiles said vaguely.
“Your fiance.” Jackson said, reaching across to steal Stiles’ mostly melted frozen coffee, wincing after he took a drink from it. “Jesus is this just sugar?”
“You don’t get to complain about it when you steal my drink.” Stiles smirked and waved over a waitress, “Can I get another frozen extra sweet mocha cold brew, and uh…” Stiles motioned at Jackson.
Jackson considered the strangeness of the situation and then turned to the waitress with a charming grin, “I’ll take an iced latte, with just a hint of caramel drizzle, please, oh, and a bottle of water.” When she’d walked away, Jackson flicked his eyes back to Stiles, “Is this a date?”
Stiles snorted, “I don’t know, I was working and you decided to join me. If it is, it’s the least formal date I’ve ever been on.”
“That’s not a no.” Jackson challenged.
Stiles pursed his lips, tapping his fingers against the closed lid of his laptop, “I guess it wasn’t.” He raised an eyebrow, “Do you want it to be a date?”
Jackson considered the question, “If I say it’s a date, are you going to tell me what you’re doing in Miami?” Jackson asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Definitely not.” Stiles said, thanking the waitress when she returned with their drinks, “But, if you want it to be a date, you can tell me how you ended up here, Dr. Whittemore.”
Well, Jackson was never one to pass up an opportunity to talk about himself.