Chapter Text
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"Can someone please turn that shit off."
Your face is buried in your hand, elbow planted like an anchor on the desk. It drags your voice down into a half-mumble. You listen to the persistent beeps of the IV equipment in some distant room, the sound only continuing to aggravate the drilling sensation in the middle of your eyebrows. Apparently the sound doesn't seem to bother anyone else. Nurses continue to shuffle around, tending to call bells and discussing results with doctors who look like they're ready to bite your head off.
You were finally able to sit down after being on your feet all morning, now even being too exhausted to get up and pee like you had hoped to do hours ago.
Greet, treat, rinse, repeat.
It never takes long for you to fall into step with the routine. The start of the day would always be rough and usually demanded some sort of caffeinated substance (or a pop of adderall) to get you moving at a reasonable pace, but eventually you hit the point where everything was still busy, just no longer personal.
A sigh leaves your lips and you force yourself up once again, searching around the ward for the source of your headache.
Working on the medical unit at the D.S.O. was never the end goal, or the beginning. If you were being honest with yourself, there never really was one.
Getting accepted into nursing school? Probably where you peaked.
After that, the journey was about as pleasant as frolicking through a sunny field of razor blades. Each year testing your intelligence, patience, and will to live all at the same time. Yet somehow you managed to drag yourself through it all. Landing yourself with a bachelor's degree, a prescription for SSRIs, and an uncertain future.
You eventually decided to follow what you were most passionate about, which just so happened to be a cushy income. Somehow, all that nonsense landed you here: scrubbing in at the D.S.O. 's medical unit, treating people who probably outrank you, and occasionally wondering if all your life choices were really just a long con.
You'd never admit it out loud. Not to anyone. Maybe not even to yourself while brushing your teeth. Always going on about how blessed you are to be making a difference in people's lives and all that bullshit. Good thing the nursing skills were interesting enough. Otherwise you might have pivoted to arson or tax fraud.
The occasional limb loss, GSW, or the latest B.O.W. outbreak — just another day keeping yourself entertained enough to stay alive. Maybe you were a thrill seeker, should have probably become a stunt specialist.
Stepping into the hallway after finally silencing the god-forsaken beeping, you spot a figure down the hallway talking to the charge nurse. From where you're standing, he seems to be a head taller than you. Broad too, not in a bulky way, just solid. You eye the faint grey at the edges of his hair, hands that look like they’ve done too much, and deep blue eyes that seem to measure everything way too carefully. The charge nurse is laughing like he’s harmless, but the way he stands — controlled, untouchable — makes your stomach do a weird flip.
She spots you down the hallway and motions for you to come over. As you get closer, you eye his collared shirt, the shoulder crusted over with blood and sticking to him like a second skin.
"Would you mind taking Agent Kennedy to an exam room? He has a shoulder laceration and needs sutures." She's looking at you like you should have started moving fifteen minutes ago. Whatever. She's always been a cunt.
When you glance over to him, he’s already watching you. Not staring, not rude. Just… assessing. You suddenly understand the feeling behind the phrase, "like a bug under a microscope". Though the name "Agent Kennedy" itches somewhere in the back of your brain, you're too distracted by the independent figure in front of you to even look for it.
Nodding slowly, you choke out, "Sure... right this way." The words sticking like the phlegm in your throat that always builds up overnight.
Gross.
Anyways.
You feel him keeping in step behind you, his presence palpable enough to eat with a spoon. The sound of his combat boots hitting the vinyl flooring and cracking through your skull were leaving you painfully aware that you would have to turn around eventually.
Your legs finally maneuver the rest of your body to an empty treatment room, your arm holding the door open for him as he strolls through. Your eyes don't seem to be cooperating though, keeping themselves glued to your feet. You can hear your mouth say, "You can take a seat on the exam table".
Seems like nobody's really working together here.
Various assholes in your life would tell you that you shouldn't have become a nurse. That it requires someone capable of interacting with the rest of society. That thought did occasionally bother you in the beginning — mainly because they were right, and you actually were the closed system they labelled you as.
However, as you became more capable with the overt clinical skills, you were able to pull some façade out of your ass that allowed you to connect with your patients and make them feel well cared for. Ironic considering you nearly failed Nursing Therapeutics 102.
In this case however, that façade you came to rely on stays perpetually wedged somewhere else in your digestive system. Unreachable in the moment where you needed it most.
He slides himself onto the table, seeming to take up more space than he means to just by existing, as if the air itself is adjusting around him.
Your eyes, no longer interested in your shoes, keep themselves trained on his face, which now appears older up close. There’s nothing remarkable about any single feature. It’s the way everything fits together that makes looking away feel premature. His frame looks built for function more than display, though you find his physique displaying itself very well despite whatever the original intent was.
You clear your throat and introduce yourself, your voice slightly uncertain, as if you're not even sure you gave him the right name. He raises his eyebrows slightly and nods, the corner of his mouth twitching briefly.
"So tell me what's going on." You don't outright address the blood, despite it being painfully obvious (pun intended).
He adjusts his shoulder, wincing somewhat. "Got a little souvenir from my last assignment. Building nearly collapsed while I was still inside". His voice sounds like he's smoked one too many, though he doesn't look like the type.
Your stomach does another flip.
Nodding in a way that hopefully makes you look seasoned enough, you start to pull on a pair of gloves. Despite this, he's probably thinking that you could use another dash or two. “Let's have a look then.”
You glance at the crusted shirt that was most likely bought one or two sizes too small (you wouldn't believe him if he denied it).
"Shirt off please?"
You really hope he doesn't notice the small wheeze that leaves your throat as you speak.
He follows through, thankfully, swiftly running his hands down the front of his shirt with buttons snapping apart like they hate each other. Shrugging his shirt off, you fight to suppress the building pressure in your chest.
Shoulders steady (despite the laceration) and ribs cascading under his skin — not a sculpted six pack on display, more like muscles that flex with the slightest movement. His forearms are lined with veins that look like they're just begging to be stuck with an IV. Scars along his biceps and torso, leaving reminders of history wherever you can see them. God. Stop staring.
Mentally punching yourself in the face, you step forward and bring your gloved hands up towards him.
"May I?"
He can probably hear your heart jackhammering from where he's sitting.
He grunts in a way that you assume means permission, so you close the gap between the two of you. Your fingers palpate the wound edges gently. They're jagged, the way a broken zipper would fit together. Most of the bleeding has stopped, though small trickles leak through the clotted tissue, coaxed out by your touch. The bruising bordering the gaps create a mosaic of purples and yellows, making it almost too brutal to look away from.
"Definitely gonna need sutures." You look up at him, meeting his gaze. His eyes make your vision tilt sideways…or maybe he's making the earth do that on its own.
You rip your eyes away and turn towards the supply cabinet, mentally taking note of what you're going to need. Stockpiling the necessary items on a tray, you turn back to him, determined to at least finish the job before your head eventually greets the floor. Approaching him for the second time, you feel his breath tickle your ear. You need to get close enough to get the stitches straight and he's doing you a favour by manspreading enough that you're basically in between his thighs. You're not complaining, obviously.
"Actually, let me get you some numbing before we start." You begin to turn around again but he shakes his head.
"Just get it over with."
You blink a couple times and slowly pick up the contents of the suture kit. "Ooo-kay then..."
You wish you had his pain tolerance. He probably would have just sneezed away the migraine you had earlier.
You try to focus on the task at hand and ignore the way his torso moves when he lifts an arm, the little twitch of shoulder and chest muscle brushing against your awareness, but your eyes are traitors.
Gripping the torn flesh with your non-dominant hand, you guide the curved needle through his skin, rejoining the edges in holy matrimony.
Thread, tie, snip. Thread, tie, snip.
The rhythm helps to distract you, if only a little. Your hard work comes to fruition as his skin starts to look less like a slasher movie and more like the stuffed dinosaur your mom stitched up for you when you were nine-years-old.
He tilts his head as you're working and an expression you can't quite identify forms on his face. "How old are you anyway?"
Your eyes dart back to his and the migraine you were trying to ignore begins to nestle between your eyebrows again. A heavy sigh leaves your lips.
"I'm twenty-five."
You weren't necessarily young for your career path, but being surrounded by other nurses with three to five more years under their belt, you found yourself often being scrutinized by the influx of long-serving agents that graced your path.
He raises his eyebrow again, that twitch from earlier now forming into a mellow smirk. "Huh. They really are speeding up the training these days."
You look up at him directly now. Honestly, you can't quite decide whether to snap at him, or tell him that ‘he's absolutely right’ and ‘who are you kidding’! His words are like a parasite digging in your brain.
A soft chuckle escapes his lips before he speaks again. "You always this calm when working around liability hazards?"
"Uhh... I try to be?" You're not entirely sure what he's referring to but judging from what he's here for, you're glad you're not a field medic.
“Good. Because I’ve been informed I’m not allowed to apologize for bleeding anymore. Union rules. Or something.”
Despite his earlier comment, you can't help but laugh, even just a little. It doesn't do too much to suppress the boiling mess in your ribcage, but at the very least, he sounds mortal enough.
A shaky exhale leaves your lips as you finally get to the top of his shoulder, tying the last knot. Only then you notice that he barely flinched throughout the entire process, just continuing to keep his eyes on you, watching. Not helpful.
"Well... I'm done here. All patched up and good as new!" You peel off your gloves and the cool air from the vents hits your very moist hands.
He lets out a quiet huff and shakes his head. The smirk still playing softly on his lips. "Maybe not good as new. Good enough for now." As he stands up and pulls his extra-small shirt back on, he hesitates for a moment.
"Thanks... by the way. Good bedside manner."
You just stand there, your knuckles turning white as you clasp your hands behind your back. Lady luck must have her eye on you right now as you feel very fortunate that you're wearing a mask, considering it's hiding your mouth hanging open like a gawking dumbass. "Agent Kennedy?" His name comes out tighter than intended.
He turns back as he's about to open the door and your vision gets all swimmy again.
"The sutures. Seven days... please." Holy shit. Put your foot in your MOUTH. "I need to take them out then."
He nods at you, understanding your backwards sentence well enough, and walks out of the treatment room.
You lean back into the exam table, the disposable paper lining crinkling in your grip. You weren't looking forward to sticking your head into that emotional meat grinder again, but you're at least grateful your migraine is gone.
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