Chapter Text
“Neil Josten, get your perfect ass back here!”
Neil winces, pausing his hand from where it was about to tug open another patient’s curtain.
So close.
He takes his time flattening his hands down the front of his whitecoat, straightening the curtain to Trauma 4 - some guy who managed to turn his foot into a kebab with a pipe that Neil was dying to get his hands on - before slowly turning around to face his charge nurse.
Allison Reynolds, quite literally the sole reason why the Palmetto Emergency Department runs at all smoothly, is standing at the head of the nurse’s station, hands on her hips, looking a little too pissed.
“Hey, Alli, do you know who discharged all of Bay 2 without getting a single lab or scan back? Because I remember specifically telling Lucas not to discharge anyone without my permission,” Neil deflects casually, coming up to prop a hip against the counter next to Allison.
Allison is the ER’s charge nurse, which means she has a right to boss Neil around, but she’s also Neil’s best friend - which means she has the right to call bullshit however harshly she wants.
And Neil can see the exact moment she decides she wants to call it.
“Oh, I know exactly who did that,” she says sweetly. She’s wearing the look she gets where she can’t decide if she’s angry, concerned, or some secret third thing Neil hasn’t discovered yet.
Neil straightens a fraction. “Oh?”
“It was a different one of your idiot interns,” she snaps. She leans in, eyes scanning Neil's face.
Ah, concern then.
“The better question is why are you here?”
“I work here. I’m a doctor, actually. Crazy, right?” Neil snarks, and tries to brush past her, but she catches him by the stethoscope with a manicured claw.
“You’re not on the schedule for tonight.”
Neil sighs, long-suffering, and lets his head tip back against the counter. The foot kebab in Trauma 4 howls, and the sound rings in Neil’s head like pots and pans clanging.
Maybe he should be glad he’s not dealing with that.
“Schedules are suggestions,” he says, watching as one of his dumber interns, Bryce or Brian or something with a ‘B’ rushes into the room. Neil inches towards the open curtain without even realizing it. “Like pain scales.”
Neil leans back a little further, straining his neck to catch the moment every bit of color drains from Byron’s face, and he sways slightly.
Goddammit, his intern is about to faint on his foot kebab.
“Billy,” he snaps, and half the room turns to look at him, all except for his intern. “Allison, what’s this one’s name again?” He asks, flicking his attention back to his friend.
Allison glares at Neil, and for a second it looks like she’s going to ignore his question, but then she looks up at the mess unfolding in Trauma 4 and sighs. “Brody.”
“Brody!” Neil shouts, and the intern jolts like he’s just been slapped. “Get out of that room and go sit down. Take a juice from the fridge with you.”
Brody stumbles backward on instinct, face gone a sickly gray-green. He nods too fast, mumbles something that might be an apology, and nearly trips over the threshold on his way out.
Neil steps forward automatically, already pulling gloves from the dispenser.
“I’ve got it,” he says, angling toward Trauma 4. “I’ll take over until -”
“No,” Allison cuts in. “We’re not done here, yet.”
She pivots, raising her voice to be heard over the bustle of the ER. “Kyle! I need Perez in Trauma 4, now. And grab Ortho - tell them it’s an impalement, no removal until imaging.”
Kyle (Neil thought his name was Chris?) is gone before Neil can protest.
Allison rounds on him fully then, blocking his path with her body and the unspoken authority of someone who knows Neil better than he’d like.
“Explain to me why you’re standing in my ER right now, even though you surpassed your eighty hours a week almost a full shift ago.”
Neil opens his mouth.
She lifts a finger. “And no excuses about getting busy. We’re always busy.”
He closes it. Tries again anyway. “I got distracted. I was on my way out, but I got pulled in.”
The foot kebab screams again, an animalistic sound. Neil’s fingers twitch.
Allison narrows her eyes, and without taking her gaze off Neil, she calls out, “Boyd!”
“I timed him,” Matt says cheerfully, peeking his head out from behind the nurse’s station on cue, and Neil cringes. “He’s been ‘about to leave’ for three hours and forty-seven minutes.”
Neil shoots him a look. He mouths traitor, and Matt just responds with a silent I love you, followed by heart hands. “I had an arterial bleed,” Neil defends.
“No, the hospital had an arterial bleed,” Allison says. “You have a problem - a problem that is going to explode in your face when upstairs finds out you’ve gone over your eighty hours for the fifth week in a row.”
Neil exhales slowly, through his nose. He keeps his eyes on Allison’s badge instead of her face, like that might blunt the force of the truth.
“I know,” he says. “I’ll deal with it.”
“No,” Allison says flatly. “You won’t. You’ll work until you drop, and we’ll have a repeat of the stairwell incident.”
Neil’s jaw tightens. He clenches and unclenches his hands at his sides, feeling the old scars adorning the tight skin there stretch and pull. Allison softens.
“I’m not doing that again,” she continues, quieter now but no less firm. “You scared the hell out of everyone.”
Neil swallows. “That’s different.”
“Really? Because you look just as dead on your feet now as you did then, Neil.”
Neil opens his mouth - and the overhead pager shrieks, cutting him off mid-breath.
“Code Blue. CT hallway. Code Blue.”
Allison’s head snaps up. Every trace of softness vanishes, replaced by clean, immediate command.
“Kyle,” she barks, already moving, “grab the crash cart. Someone get me a chart.”
She pivots back just long enough to spear Neil with a look.
“Go home,” she shouts over her shoulder as she breaks into a run. “I mean it, Josten. Home.”
Neil nods quickly. “I will.”
She doesn’t slow down to see if he’s lying.
The ER surges around him as staff peel off toward the code, the noise spiking into something sharp and frantic. Neil stands there for a beat longer than he should, hands still clenched, just watching.
Neil glances toward Trauma, toward the open bays and unfinished things pulling at him like gravity. He thinks of his empty apartment, just as bare as the day he bought it two years ago, thinks of the silence. Then he looks at the empty space where Allison disappeared.
He raps his knuckles on the counter, once, and one of the older nurses glances up at him. “Tell her I left,” he says, nodding his head in the direction Allison took off in.
The nurse - Neil is sure her name is Lillian - raises an eyebrow. “Did you?”
“I’m about to,” Neil swears, heading off in the direction of the breakroom, pointedly ignoring Lillian’s mumbled “that boy’s a damn liar,” at his back.
-
The fluorescent lights hum overhead, and for the first time in hours the chaos of the ER seems distant, muted, like someone turned the volume down on the world.
Neil knows Allison has a point. He knows he can’t live in this hospital forever, but he also knows that there are times when he can handle the four walls of his apartment, and times when he can’t.
And it’s in the times where he can’t that the silence warps, and every thought in his head rings out in his mother’s voice, when every shadow resembles his father.
Neil is free - has been free since his Uncle Stuart found him in his father’s sterile basement, bleeding and burned and dying.
He was free the day his uncle shot his father, was free the day he moved into the Hatford house in London, was free the day he got accepted into medical school at age twenty-one with the help of some forged papers, despite Neil not telling anyone in his newfound family he had even applied. He was free the day he got his whitecoat, the day he stepped foot in this very hospital.
But even freedom has its limits.
And Neil’s limit is his mind, which can’t seem to remember that the danger is gone, that a quiet room doesn’t mean someone is hiding in the shadows - it just means a quiet room.
His limit is his body, which never fully recovered from that basement, or the cleaver that he father had halfway buried in Neil’s thigh when the bullets started flying.
His mind wants to run, is desperate to flee, but his body is stuck, aching and sore and coiled so tightly he’s convinced he’s about to snap.
So Neil works.
It's safe. It's predictable in its unpredictability. Work is a cage he built himself - but at least it’s a cage he can navigate without feeling trapped. It’s a cage that’s never silent.
-
Neil really was planning on leaving. He wasn’t lying to Allison, wasn’t lying to that nurse. But he was halfway to the breakroom, whitecoat draped over one arm, when he heard it, and it only took a second for Neil to decide that one more patient couldn’t hurt.
-
The sound echoes down the hallway, metal clanging against tile, a tray knocked over or an IV pole hitting a monitor. It’s followed almost immediately by shouting - two, maybe three voices, overlapping, tense and loud.
Neil freezes mid-step. The chaos slices through his mental fog like a scalpel.
“Matt, get me four point restraints and draw up 0.5 midazolam IM,” one voice demands, looming over the rest. It’s muffled, but Neil knows that voice too well.
His stomach twists.
Dr. Fischer.
Neil doesn’t even hesitate. He spins on his heel, shrugging his coat on, and storms toward the sound.
He’s worked with Fischer before - too many times, if you ask him. The guy mistakes arrogance for authority and thinks fear earns compliance. Fischer screws up, the patient pays, and somehow he always walks out looking untouchable. He’s a liability, and Neil’s already complained about him upstairs too many times this month, and yet somehow, he’s still here.
Neil yanks open the curtain to Trauma 1, and immediately starts writing up the patient endangerment report in his head.
Trays are overturned, an IV pole is leaning dangerously, not a single monitor is on and he can’t see an IV placed anywhere on the patient, which should’ve been step one.
Fischer is holding a hand to his nose, blood streaming through his fingers, gesturing wildly at Matt with his other hand. Matt, meanwhile, is toe to toe with him.
“I can’t restrain a dislocated shoulder, doctor,” he says carefully, eyes flicking towards Neil. He stands up a little straighter, easily a foot taller than the furious doctor in front of him.
“The patient is agitated and aggressive. I am not starting treatment until he is sedated and restrained!” Fischer growls, triggering the peanut gallery from the other side of the room.
A tall dark haired man in an obscene orange and white jersey leans over the foot of the patient’s bed, instantly screeching. “If you make the injury worse, Andrew will be out for the rest of the season! Just set his shoulder like this - he won’t hit anyone again. Right, Andrew?” The man demands, glaring at the patient.
The patient - Andrew, Neil assumes - is wearing the same shades of orange and white, the colors reversed, and Neil clocks the way he’s leaning almost imperceptibly away from Fischer, one hand clutched above the opposite elbow, shoulder protruding at an odd angle. He doesn’t answer the man, but his eyes find Neil and Neil has decided he’s heard enough.
“This is not up for debate,” Fischer shouts towards the man, not taking his eyes off Matt. “If you would like to keep your job, Nurse Boyd, you will get me four-point restraints and -”
“I’ve got it, Dr Fischer,” Neil cuts in cleanly, tugging on a pair of gloves and nodding towards Matt, who throws him a relieved smile. “I’d like to try a different approach before we go tying down patients for no good reason.”
Fischer wheels around to face Neil, blood steadily dripping onto his white coat. “Dr. Josten, the patient is violent and agitated. He punched me in the face - I’d say that is a very good reason to have him restrained! Wouldn’t you?”
Neil eyes Andrew. He’s sitting upright on the gurney, arm hugged to his chest, jaw tight, body rigid with pain. He isn’t struggling, isn’t fighting anyone, hell, he’s barely letting himself breathe. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Neil, and the man at his bedside looks nervously between him and Fischer.
Neil doesn’t flinch. “No,” he says simply, looking at Andrew. “Are you planning on hitting me, Mr. -” Neil snatches the chart off the hook at the foot of the bed, reading the name, “Minyard?”
Andrew scowls, but the effect is lessened by the twinge of pain in his expression. “We’ll see,” he bites out, voice low and strained. It’s deliberately in-between a yes and a no, testing.
Neil tilts his head, dropping the chart onto the bed and clapping his hands. “Good enough for me,” he says, authority threaded through every word. “Dr. Fischer - out.”
Fischer loses it. “I am your attending, Josten! You do not get to give me orders in my ER -”
“You won’t be my attending for much longer once upstairs finds out that you just hit your third strike in under a week by actively recommending a course of action that might prevent an athlete from ever playing again,” Neil interrupts.
Fischer flails a little, sputtering incoherently, but Neil doesn’t give him the chance to defend himself. “Get out, or I will remove you from the room myself.”
For a moment, Fischer just stares at him, chest heaving, blood still seeping between his fingers and spotting the front of his coat. The room has gone very quiet. The dark haired man is frozen, eyes darting between Neil and Fischer like they’re watching a car crash in slow motion. Matt’s grinning like a maniac.
“You don’t have the authority -” Fischer starts.
Neil doesn’t have to raise his voice, he doesn’t puff himself up. He just steps closer, until he’s squarely in Fischer’s space, his gaze level and unblinking.
God, he hates this guy.
“I have the authority to protect my patient,” Neil says evenly. “And Mr. Minyard is now my patient.”
Fischer lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “This is unbelievable.” He spins on his heel, and stalks out of the bay, still clutching his nose. The curtain jerks violently as he yanks it aside, and his voice echoes down the hall.
“I’ll be filing a report -”
“Great,” Neil mumbles to himself. “I’ll add it to my collection.”
Matt lets out a low whistle, clapping Neil on the shoulder. “I swear to God, Neil, I love it when you get scary.” He grins, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Have I ever told you that you’re my favorite doctor?”
Neil shrugs, already turning his attention back to the bed. “Twice since this morning.”
Matt laughs, and Neil pulls out the stool from the nurse’s computer in the corner, dropping onto it heavily, carefully masking the way the movement sends a shoot of sharp pain up his leg. He’s going to pay for being on his feet for so long later, but he can’t bring himself to regret it.
He rolls himself on the stool towards Andrew, stopping a foot away from the bed. “Alright,” he starts, editing his typical patient introduction speech slightly. “I’m sure you’ve figured this out by now, but my name is Dr. Josten and I’m going to take over for Dr. Fischer.”
Andrew’s jaw flexes. “You always make a habit of threatening your coworkers?”
“No,” Neil replies mildly.
Matt huffs. “Oh, absolutely. And yes - it is just as beautiful each time.”
Neil flicks Matt a look. “Go flirt with someone else.”
“Wow,” Matt says, clutching his chest. “And here I thought we had something special.”
“Um,” the dark haired man starts, looking extremely confused.
Neil ignores him and turns his attention fully back to the bed. Andrew is still rigid, still guarding his shoulder, eyes sharp despite the pain. Neil notes it all - the way his fingers dig into his sleeve, the slight tremor he’s trying to suppress, the controlled way he’s breathing like it’s taking a conscious effort not to gasp.
“Your chart says you hurt your shoulder,” Neil says calmly. “Tell me what happened.”
The dark-haired man answers immediately, words tumbling over each other. “Game injury. This jackass checked him from the left, shoulder popped out on impact. He got a red card, of course - checking a goalie is the easiest way to piss off a ref. No head injury, no loss of consciousness.”
Neil nods as he listens, glancing up at the man. “Thanks. And you are…?”
There’s a beat of silence.
The man just stares at him.
“…You’re kidding,” he says slowly.
Neil’s brow furrows a fraction. “No.”
The man’s mouth opens. Closes. He gestures vaguely at himself, then at the jersey, then at Andrew, like the explanation should be self-evident. “I’m Kevin Day.”
Neil nods once, entirely unfazed. He hears Matt choke back a laugh behind him. “Okay.”
Kevin Day makes a strangled sound. “Okay?”
Andrew snorts, a sharp, humorless sound that clearly hurts but is worth it. He shifts minutely, eyes flicking between Neil and Kevin. “Calm down, Day,” he mutters. “He’s a doctor, he probably doesn’t know stickball.”
Kevin turns on Andrew. “Everyone knows.”
Neil interjects calmly, “Are you two famous?”
Kevin stares at him like he’s just asked if he’s ever committed a felony. “I am -” he stops himself, visibly reeling. “I am the most famous exy player in the country.”
Neil considers that for half a second. Plasters on a half-assed smile. “Congratulations?”
Kevin makes an exasperated noise and drags a hand down his face, but Neil’s attention is already back on Andrew, professional and steady. “Any numbness or tingling in the arm? Fingers?”
Andrew shakes his head once. “No.”
“Previous dislocations?”
“Once.”
“Same side?”
“Yes.”
Neil nods, thinking. He doesn’t mention the faint hitch in Andrew’s breath when he answers, or the way his eyes flick to Neil’s hands like he’s tracking them.
Kevin exhales sharply. “For the record,” he says stiffly, “I could explain the mechanics of the injury in detail.”
“I believe you,” Neil replies. “But right now, all I need you to do is stop leaning on the bed and back up two steps.”
Kevin bristles, but he listens - takes two careful steps back, hands curling at his sides like he’s holding himself in place by sheer will.
Matt, who’s been hovering just inside the curtain with a tray, clears his throat. “So,” he says lightly, “IV?”
Andrew’s shoulders tense immediately. It’s subtle, but Neil catches it - the way his spine goes rigid, the way his heels dig into the sheet underneath him.
He shakes his head. “No. He doesn’t need it.”
Matt blinks. “You sure? I can -”
Neil finally looks up at him, already knowing he’s going to get so much shit for pretending not to know who The Kevin Day is later. “Actually, go grab me ice packs and a sling. And page ortho, tell them I want them on standby but not in the room yet.”
Matt nods immediately. “On it.” He pauses, then adds, grinning, “Try not to yell at anyone else while I’m gone. Can’t miss that.”
“I'll try to refrain,” Neil says dryly.
Matt laughs and ducks out, the curtain swaying shut behind him.
Neil meets Andrew’s eyes again. He has a feeling this next part is going to go a lot less smoothly. “I’ve got to reduce your shoulder now - the longer it’s out, the higher risk of permanent injury,” he says, ignoring Kevin’s hissing. “I’m not going to restrain you. I’m not going to sedate you unless you ask. But this will hurt, and I’ve had my nose broken too many times in my life already. I need you to tell me if you’re going to swing so I can duck.”
Andrew’s lips tick ever so slightly, and Neil makes the executive decision to count it as a smile. “What’s the point of throwing a punch if I’m going to warn you first?”
Kevin makes an outraged noise. “Andrew, this guy is probably the only doctor in this state who isn’t afraid to touch you -”
Neil holds up a hand without looking away from Andrew. “Kevin.”
Kevin snaps his mouth shut. Barely.
Neil steels himself, only partially sure he isn’t about to get hit, and reaches for Andrew’s arm. He’s learned that patients will psych themselves out when it comes to reducing dislocations, and it’s sometimes better to just go for it without any sort of countdown.
Though, in hindsight, this may not be one of those times.
Andrew tears his arm away the second Neil’s fingers make contact with his skin, entire body whipping in the opposite direction, breath catching hard in his throat. His eyes glass for half a second before he schools his face back into something defiant. Neil rolls the stool back in inch, holding his hands up, and waits for an explanation or direction.
“I don’t like to be touched,” Andrew states blandly.
Neil nods once. Andrew isn’t his first touch-adverse patient, and he racks his brain to try to find a way to set his shoulder with as little contact as possible. “Okay.”
Kevin spins on him. “Okay? You can’t just -”
“Kevin,” Neil says, calm but edged now, “I think this might work better if you step out for a moment.”
Kevin scoffs. “I’m not leaving.”
Neil shoots him a look. “You can wait right outside the curtain. I will come get you when we’re done,” he says, tone final.
Kevin stares at him, incredulous, then looks to Andrew. “Are you okay with this?”
Andrew doesn’t look at him. His eyes are locked on Neil. “Go,” he says shortly.
Kevin hesitates, then exhales hard through his nose and storms out, pulling the curtain closed much softer than his huffing suggests he wants to.
“Thank you,” Neil directs to Andrew, sincerely.
Andrew doesn’t respond. His breathing is shallow now, controlled like he’s bracing for impact.
Neil thinks for a second, then adjusts his position so he’s at Andrew’s eye level, not looming. He keeps his hands visible, resting them on his own knees.
“Here’s the deal,” he says. “I have to touch you to pop your shoulder back in, but I will make sure to keep the contact as little as possible. I will tell you exactly what I’m doing before I do it. If you want me to stop, I stop. No questions asked.”
Andrew studies him, suspicious. “And if I tell you to stop halfway through?”
“Then we stop,” Neil repeats. “And we reassess.”
Andrew’s jaw works. He stares at Neil like he’s trying to peel him apart layer by layer, searching for the lie, the trick.
Neil doesn’t rush him.
He stays still, hands where Andrew can see them, posture relaxed but ready. He’s learned the hard way that silence, when offered freely, can be just as reassuring as words.
The seconds stretch.
Finally, Andrew nods. “Fine,” he says.
Neil shifts closer by inches, not feet. “I’m going to move your elbow down first. I’ll keep one hand on your bicep.”
Andrew gives a sharp, single nod.
Neil wraps a careful hand around the muscle in Andrew’s upper arm, pulling his elbow downwards, then pauses. “I’m going to touch your wrist now.”
Andrew’s eyes don’t leave his face. “Do it.”
Neil’s fingers close gently around Andrew’s wrist with his other hand, holding over the black armbands he noticed as soon as he entered the room and -
Interesting. He was right - not a fashion statement.
Neil’s thumb brushes against the rigid outline hidden beneath the fabric of Andrew’s armband, unmistakable even through the compression sleeve.
A knife.
Neil doesn’t react outwardly. Doesn’t tense. He leaves it in the back of his mind and keeps his voice steady.
“I’m going to pull with my right hand and press down with my left. Try not to hold your breath,” Neil warns.
He waits until Andrew nods again, still breathing.
“You know,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather, “hospital policy technically frowns on concealed weapons.”
Andrew hums. “You going to confiscate it?”
“No,” Neil says. “I can tell from here it needs to be sharpened to do any real damage.”
Andrew huffs out a short breath - half offended, half wince - and in that fraction of distraction, Neil moves.
He lowers the elbow, rotates gently, lets gravity and momentum do the work.
There’s a sharp, wet pop.
Andrew sucks in a breath, a sound torn halfway between pain and relief. His whole body jerks, then stills, impossibly tense.
Neil keeps his grip steady but light, already easing off. “And that’s in,” he says, leaning back. “You’re done.”
Andrew stares at him, stunned, breathing hard. After a beat, his shoulders drop, tension bleeding out of him like someone finally loosened a too-tight coil.
“Shit,” Andrew mutters, face red and blonde hair pasted against his forehead with sweat.
Neil releases him completely and scoots his stool back. “I’m going to grab Kevin,” he says, already reaching for the curtain. “Don’t move that arm.”
Andrew gives a barely perceptible nod.
Neil pulls the curtain aside. Kevin is pacing exactly one step outside it, hands shoved violently into his pockets like that’s the only thing keeping him from barging back in. He spins the second he sees Neil.
“Well?” Kevin demands.
Neil sighs. “Come on in.”
Kevin grunts and pushes past him, beelining straight for Andrew’s bedside. “Does it hurt? How does it feel? Can you rotate -”
“No,” Neil cuts in flatly, letting the curtain fall shut behind them. “Don’t move it.”
Kevin freezes, mid-reach. “I wasn’t going to -”
“You were,” Neil says without heat. He moves back toward the bed and plants himself on his stool, directly between Kevin and Andrew more out of habit than anything else. “Now. Questions. One at a time.”
Kevin points at Neil. “How long is he out?”
Neil sighs again and pushes up from the stool.
His leg screams immediately - sharp and hot and familiar. He shouldn’t have let himself sit, but it’s too late now.
He locks his knee on instinct and shifts his weight too fast, masking the hitch before it can turn into a limp. He keeps his posture loose, rolls his shoulders like nothing’s wrong.
Andrew’s eyes flick down anyway. Neil pretends not to notice.
“Best case,” Neil says, “two to three weeks in a sling with physical therapy, assuming this is a clean anterior dislocation and there’s no rotator cuff tear or nerve involvement. Worst case, six to eight weeks. Longer if he rushes it and re-dislocates.”
A vein in Kevin’s forehead bulges. “We have an important game in five.”
Neil meets his stare, unimpressed. “Then he plays in five with a shoulder that doesn’t work, and risks never playing again, or he waits until next season and plays with one that does. That choice isn’t mine.”
Andrew snorts quietly.
Neil glances at him. “Ice, NSAIDs, no overhead movement, no exy until ortho clears you,” he continues. “I’m writing everything up in your discharge paperwork. Follow-up appointments, PT recommendations, signs of complications. Read it.”
Kevin opens his mouth again.
Neil lifts a hand. “Whatever you’re about to ask - it’ll be in the report card.”
Right on cue, the curtain rustles and Matt slips back in, balancing a sling and two ice packs. “Miss me?” He asks, smiley as ever.
“Always,” Neil says without infliction. “Sling him, ice pack over the joint. Then they’re free to go.”
Matt grins and gets to work.
Neil steps back, giving them space. Andrew’s gaze catches him again, sharper now, assessing. Neil feels it like a physical thing, the weight of being noticed.
He keeps his stance even. Professional.
Neil leaves, closing the curtain behind him, and doesn’t look back.
-
Neil leans one hip against the counter outside the bay, pulling up Andrew’s chart and forcing his weight onto his good leg. The other one throbs dully, the ache deep and familiar, like an old warning light he’s learned to ignore. He types anyway, fingers flying on muscle memory:
Anterior shoulder dislocation, reduced without sedation, neurovascularly intact pre and post, patient declined IV analgesia. Sling applied. Ortho follow-up in five to seven days. PT referral attached.
He attaches the discharge instructions, double-checks the medication dosing, then pauses with his cursor hovering.
He sees it again - Andrew’s eyes, locked on him. The knife under his armband, with its matching pair certainly tucked away on his other arm.
Kevin mentioned Andrew is a goalie - though Neil could’ve figured that out by the reversed colors on his jersey. Neil wonders how he managed to get checked from inside the goal. He hasn’t let himself watch a game of exy since before his mother died, hasn’t let himself so much as think about the sport since Baltimore, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t considering pulling up tonight’s game on his laptop later to see the injury happen.
Neil shakes his head slowly and jabs his finger into the send button on the computer.
There’s no reason for him to watch the game. He did his job. Watching the injury won’t help him help Andrew.
He closes the chart. This is it. He’s actually leaving this time.
He shifts his weight, straightens from the counter -
A knuckle taps the back of his computer screen. Not hard, but Neil still startles at the sound.
Andrew stands in front of him, sling secured properly, ice pack tucked between fabric and the white of his jersey. His hair is still damp at the temples, his color better than it was fifteen minutes ago.
Neil straightens fully, jaw setting as his leg protests. He covers it automatically with crisp posture and a confused expression. He can see Kevin at the front nurse’s station out of the corner of his eye, hands waving around his head, no doubt arguing.
Neil closes the laptop and turns to face him fully. “Can I help you?”
Andrew studies him for a beat, head tilted slightly, like he’s lining something up in his mind.
“You knew who Kevin was,” he accuses.
Neil smirks, doesn’t bother denying it. “Yes.”
Andrew’s eyes narrow. “Why lie?”
Neil considers all the professional ways he could answer that question, but dismisses them all just as fast. Professional is boring.
“Because,” Neil says easily, “I wasn’t in that room for him. I was there for you.”
Andrew goes very still, like the words were the last one he expected to hear, which is fair. Neil tends to have that effect on people.
He glares. “That’s not an answer.”
Neil smiles. “It is. You just don’t like it.”
Andrew’s eyes flick briefly toward the nurse’s station, where Kevin is mid-gesture, then back to Neil. He shifts slightly, careful of the sling, tapping on finger on the shut laptop, and his gaze sharpens.
“Are you going to be in trouble?” he asks.
“For?” Neil asks, not understanding the switch in topic.
Andrew taps harder on the laptop. “Fischer.”
Neil barks a quiet laugh. “God, I hope so. It’s been a slow week.”
“You kicked your attending out of his own room,” Andrew snaps, irritation bleeding through.
“And yet,” Neil says mildly, “here I am. Still employed.”
Andrew stares at him like he’s trying to decide whether Neil is reckless or just terminally overconfident. It’s probably both, but Neil knows he won’t face any consequences for yelling at Fischer. His numbers are better, anyway.
“You don’t seem worried,” Andrew points out.
“I’m not.”
“Why.”
Neil leans back against the wall, folding his arms loosely, posture relaxed in a way that’s almost obnoxious. His leg screams at him for it. He ignores it on principle.
“Because Fischer just hit three strikes in under a week,” Neil says. “That’s twelve in the last month. Half the hospital has reported him already - his report against me won’t even reach a desk.”
Andrew’s eyes narrow. “Three?”
“Three,” Neil confirms. He counts the offenses off on his fingers, distantly wondering if he’s allowed to be shit-talking another doctor to a patient, but brushes the thought off. “Lab mix-up that resulted in the wrong dosage of the wrong medication being given. Threw an intern under the bus for one of his other mistakes and almost lost her a scholarship. And now, he tried to restrain a patient who was calm, oriented, and saying no, after provoking him.”
Andrew’s mouth twists. He’s tapping Neil’s laptop so hard, Neil worries he might tap through it. “I hit him.”
“Yes,” Neil agrees slowly. “After he grabbed you without consent and ignored repeated verbal refusal. That’s not a you-problem. That’s a him-problem.” Neil thinks for a second. “Let's just be glad you didn’t stab him - I have a feeling he’d make a terrible patient.”
Andrew shakes his head once, like he’s trying to clear something stubborn from his thoughts. He goes quiet again. The tapping stops. His gaze drifts, unfocused for half a second, then snaps back to Neil’s face.
He opens his mouth to speak, eyes dropping down to Neil’s leg, and Neil is positive he’s going to ask, but before he gets the chance, Neil watches as Kevin whips around at the nurse’s station, obviously searching for Andrew.
“I think your boyfriend’s looking for you,” Neil says, tipping his head in Kevin’s direction, who is now pacing in circles and calling Andrew’s name frantically.
Andrew chokes, coughing awkwardly, and gives Neil a scowl so intense Neil's sure it must hurt. “Fuck no,” he grits out, ears flushing a bright red under the harsh lights. Neil raises an eyebrow, leaning against the wall just slightly, still masking the throb in his leg.
“Ah,” Neil says flatly, unamused but genuinely surprised. They seem closer than teammates, but maybe Kevin’s like that with everyone. “My bad.”
Andrew looks like he wants to argue further, but something behind Neil’s head grabs his attention, and he cocks his head slightly. Neil’s about to turn and look for the explanation when he hears it.
“Someone please tell me I’m hallucinating and not actually seeing Neil Josten standing in my hallway right now.”
Neil freezes mid-breath.
Allison.
Oh, he’s fucked.
Neil checks the clock on the wall. He told Allison he was leaving almost two hours ago.
Andrew watches over Neil’s shoulder, an interesting expression on his face. “Sounds like your girlfriend’s looking for you.”
Neil’s head snaps toward him, eyes wide in the same exact way Andrew’s had been a moment ago. “Girlfriend?” he echoes, flat and incredulous.
Andrew shrugs one shoulder. “No?”
Neil shakes his head, hard. “Absolutely not,” he swears. “That’s Allison.”
When Andrew doesn’t comment, Neil curses under his breath, and risks a peak behind him, only to find Allison standing arms crossed down the hall, staring straight at him. “I’ve been caught,” Neil clarifies, whispering as if that’ll hide him.
Andrew’s eyes flick to Allison, then back at Neil, amusement fighting with disbelief.
“Caught? What, don’t tell me you’re not actually a doctor,” he says, fake aghast.
Neil lets the corners of his mouth twitch. “I’m definitely a doctor,” he says. “Just a doctor that said he was going home two hours ago.”
Andrew arches an eyebrow. “So why didn’t you?”
Neil holds Andrew’s gaze, shrugging with exaggerated nonchalance. “I was about to. But then I overheard Fischer being difficult and figured I had time for one more case.”
Andrew’s expression shutters, and his lips part, like he’s about to ask something else, but Allison is storming towards him before he can, her stride long and precise, hands clenching at her sides. Neil straightens automatically, hiding the wince his leg betrays.
Andrew gives her a nod, sparing Neil one last glance and a quiet, “have fun with that,” and then he’s gone, walking down the hall and whacking Kevin on the back of the head with his good hand.
Allison’s voice rises, full of disbelief and exasperation, and Neil winces. “Neil. Genuinely. Truly. Whole heartedly. What the fuck?”
Neil watches Kevin and Andrew bicker, Kevin flipping through the packets he was given with the discharge instructions Neil wrote up, watches as Andrew pulls the ice packs out of his sling and drops them in the trash on his way out.
He sighs, turning his attention back to Allison, ready to grovel for his life, only to find her staring at him with a cat-like grin. “...What?”
“Oh, honey,” Allison purrs. “Forget going home - we all know you weren’t going to anyway. My shift ends in a half hour. You are going to sit your ass in the breakroom and wait for me to get done, and then you’re coming over to my place, and we’re going to talk about the doe eyes you just sent that man over there.”
Neil blinks, his leg aching like a subtle but insistent alarm. “The what now?”
Allison raises a brow, unimpressed. “Don’t play dumb. Was this your first time flirting with a patient? Because if so, we’re going to have to stop for wine.”
Neil flexes his toes inside his shoes. He’s very confused. “I - I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, though the words feel hollow even to him.
Truth is, he doesn’t care. Drinking wine with Allison while she gossips about his not-flirting sounds a lot better than going back to his apartment.
Allison huffs, clearly unconvinced, and spins on her heel to walk back toward the nurses’ station. Neil watches her go, then pauses, the idea striking him suddenly.
“Wait, Alli!” He calls, jogging a few steps to catch up.
She stops mid-stride, blonde hair bouncing as she spins to face him. “Yeah?”
Neil swallows, grimacing at the sharp pain in his leg. This is a bad idea all around, but Neil’s tired enough to ignore the warning flares in his mind.
“Do you have ESPN? On your TV?”
Allison blinks at him, confusion written across her face. “Obviously?”
Neil shrugs, feigning casualness. “Would you be cool if we did the whole wine and chat thing,” he says, glancing down the hall where Andrew had disappeared, thinking of the way he’d moved, the way he’d looked at him, “while I watch tonight’s exy game?”
Allison just stares at him, before a look of pure glee swarms her features. “…No shit,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Yeah, Neil. We can watch exy,” she laughs, turning back to her station.
She waves a hand in the air, flagging down a smiling Matt, who is no doubt about to hear all about whatever new theory she’s just come up with regarding Neil, but Neil can’t find it in himself to be annoyed.
He’s too busy wondering how a goalie managed to get checked hard enough to have his shoulder dislocated, when everyone knows touching a goalie is the easiest way to piss off a ref in exy.