A/N: Alright, here's the D-L, peeps. This is the first fanfiction I've written in years, and pretty much the only time I've tried this style. So. Hopefully it'll be interesting.
I'm not actually sure why I decided to write something based on Trauma Center; the only thing I can tell you is that I had the urge to explore these characters some more while playing Under The Knife 2. -shrug- I'm just gonna make it clear right now, though, that they might not seem completely IC, since I'm just going off my own perspective. Not like there's much development there in the game, anyway.
I don't know exactly where this thing's going or when it'll end, but I'll try to keep up with it. 'Cause it'd be nice to finish something.
WARNING: will contain adult themes, including sexual. Yeah, there's gonna be some homo shit goin' on. So if you've got a low tolerance for such, I'd suggest high-tailing your ass on out of here right now.
Otherwise, enjoy. :3
"I will save this patient!"
It's one of those things you say just before an operation because you're so pumped up- or you're trying to get pumped up- and it feels and sounds really good at the time, y'know, but later it just sounds kinda funny. Funny, or incredibly sad.
Today, it was sad.
Prologue: Neumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis (Is a Real Word)
I can't tell if it embarrasses Angie or not, either. She'll give me that look of hers sometimes, where she just stares all focused-like at some point on my forehead. Like she's listening, but not really. She should really nod when she does that. Unless she's just trying to make me feel stupid.
She's probably trying to make me feel stupid.
And sometimes she'll smile, but I can't tell if it's out of discomfort or what. I mean, she shouldn't feel uncomfortable around me after all these years, but you never can tell with a woman. Or maybe it's just her; maybe she's only one out of a few that fly off the handle for no damn good reason and expect you to read their minds and shit all the time. Fairer sex my ass.
Yeah, I'm rambling, I know. But, like I said, it's been a rough day. Well, 'sad'.
And anyway, I'm doing all this speculation for nothing. 'Cause in the end, it doesn't really matter what kind of looks Angie gives me if she wants my cock. Which she does. Has for a while, now.
And she's so transparent about it, it kills me.
I'm talking juvenile playground shit, where you tease or pinch or scowl at some poor kid because you're actually too dumb to try and befriend the person you like. And then you deny, deny, deny that accusation when someone finally gets sick of the act and calls you out on it. I mean, honestly. Her face looks worse than a tomato's at the mere mention of having lunch with me.
Because God forbid it's like that.
I really don't understand who the Hell she thinks she's fooling. Which just leads me to more speculation on all things supple-breasted, which, in turn, leads me to wasting more neural firings on a bunch of shit that doesn't even matter when I should be wasting them on the patient that just died over in Room 104.
I fucking hate appendicitis.
No, let me re-phrase: I fucking hate people who have appendicitis and know they have appendicitis but refuse to come in 'til the last minute. Because the last minute, dumbasses, isn't the last minute at all; as soon as that baby ruptures, there's no more time. You've got negative minutes left, you are in the shit once all that lovely bacteria and pus starts gushing out into the rest of your body. And I can't help you, dumbass, because the Healing Touch is only good for slowing things down for a bit, not going back in time and reversing your stupid ass decisions.
I can't get too mad at him in this case, though. He was just a 14-year-old brat that played too much soccer. His parents are the clueless shitheads who should've done something about it.
I fucking hate hospitals.
And I know I'm just saying that because it's been a bad-sad-sucky kind of day, but sometimes I really do hate this place. Hope Hospital, Caduceus- it doesn't matter which Hell-Hole I'm at. 'Cause no one wins in a hospital. All those smiles and congratulations and full recoveries? Those're fucking illusions. Grade A bullshit.
Because, in the world of sickness and surgery and sanitizer, of paperwork and medication and insurance policies, no one ever really wins. Especially not the guy who went to school for eight years, just so he could stand in the middle of it all wearing his stupid fucking stethoscope and an empty smile.
My name is Derek Stiles, and I'm a doctor.
A/N: If anyone understands the significance of this chapter's title, they get an e-cookie.
