I'm learning to write comedy. And it's hard.
I really liked a certain character on Grey's Anatomy who was only there for a season. I wrote this from their POV, and also decided to experiment with mystery while I was at it. There's also adult situations involved.
Also: #CalzonaForever
Fic written while listening to "Gypsy Woman" by Jay and the Americans. On loop.
A guy showed up on my third day of work at McDonald's and declared himself King of the Universe. And then he pointed a shotgun at me and lingered on how pretty I was.
He was so distracted that he didn't notice the police when they showed up and turned his body into pink-and-red swiss cheese.
I've lived through that, and I had to keep going to work because: hey. Trust Funds are mythical creatures that only show their asses to those who don't understand that money comes in less than seven figures a month. Or Kings of the Universe, come to think of it.
Residency is like McDonald's, in a way. But in reverse. The patients are the people cowering behind the counter and the surgeons are the addicted clientele wolfing down their meals. I've been behind the real counter. And now I want to be the proverbial client: I want to be served.
Gimme an axe wedged in a skull. A GSW to the heart. An impossibly painful but miraculously-they-survived impalement with something freaky...like a candy streamer outside a barber shop. That actually happened once...and I watched someone else take care of it.
I'm a Surgical Intern, which basically means I'm a fledgling addict. A baby being weaned off of Coca Cola breast-milk with curly-fries and a Happy Meal. Which means I have to behave myself while the adults have the Mega-Burgers. While they discard their salad, ignore their coleslaw, and I can't reach far enough across the table to nick something off their plates.
And I'm in love.
It's like...I show up to work wondering if I'll get to scrub in on something amazing.
And I imagine her at the sink. I imagine she's not feeling confident about what we're about to do next, but her face seems to light up when I walk in.
"God I hope you're scrubbing in, Murphy," I imagine her saying. And I say something cool in return, like: "Where do you need me?"
And we go in there and save a life.
For some reason we're the only ones in there...asides from the patient, of course. No nurses, no anesthesiologist. Some emergency or another has happened and everyone's trapped somewhere else or something.
It would be our own surgical mating ritual. Like we're super-advanced aliens and this is how we reproduce. This is our initial physical joining. Our wedding night. Or, more accurately, the foreplay of our wedding night.
And we both save a life. On our own.
The rest of the OR staff show up when we're closing, of course.
I'm a good closer. An excellent closer. Granted I have help when I'm doing it, but...well, all I've ever done is close. And none of the patients have come back with scissors in their spleens or anything.
We'll scrub out. I'll stand a few steps behind her as we inform the patient's family that everything went well, and that they're in recovery. She'll give instructions to some other intern – Edwards or Wilson – to monitor the patient. And she'll ask me to follow her while the patient's family make exuberant noises of joy in the background.
We'll be in the Attending's Lounge. It will be empty, because...well...hospitals are busy places. And she'll ask me to close the door when I step in.
"You're the only person in this hospital who could have pulled it off on your own," she's say while taking off her scrub-cap.
And I'd say something cool like: "we make a great team. I doubt I could fly solo without you guiding me."
And she'd let her hair down. Her marvelous, silky hair. She would do it slowly, so the strands could cascade down her back and shoulders. And then she'd take her jacket off...then her scrub-top.
Sports bras are not sexy. They're not meant to be. But hers would be, because it covered her. And I would be spell-bound. And she would be inches away from my face in half a second. And her lips would be on mine.
She would be wet.
Dripping, and getting wetter by the second. I want her breasts: her nipples. I want them in my mouth. I want to mark them, like she would mark mine. I want...to kiss those hands. Those magic fingers which have saved countless lives and without a doubt pleasured her most sensitive regions. Those digits which could tap and curve and soothe and pinch and slap. Those nimble-
"Are you...okay, Murphy?"
It's Edwards. And she's staring at me like I've sprouted an alien from my nostril.
"Yea that's nice," I say dreamily.
Jo looks where I was staring. The cafeteria is noisy, and we actually have time to eat lunch today. But I've probably been staring into space while they talked. And they're starting to get annoyed.
"There she goes," Wilson remarks as Christina Yang zips past, with her curly hair leaving a hint of "stay awaaaaay from me, interns!" in her wake.
She's about to do the ultimate heart transplant and we've greatly disappointed her. So we're banished to the wilderness of Ortho for the rest of the day.
I HATE the sound of breaking bones.
A voice sounds at the other end of the room and I hear no other...except what the rest of the voice is saying, two sets of footsteps and my own heart beat.
"My phone battery died, so sorry I couldn't-"
I HATE it when she apologizes.
The object of my desire walks into view. I'm zipping and curling in my chair and don't care who sees. She walks from behind me – every hair on my body (speaking of which...I need to shave) – stands on end.
That amazing golden hair. That white lab coat with a teddy bear on it. That prosthetic leg which no one would believe existed if they didn't see it. DAMN.
"I like to see the lady go, if you know what I mean," both my optic nerves tell my brain, and I drool as I watch her walk.
Towards her wife, who breaks bones for a living.
"That's okay, babe," Calliope Torres says when they're close enough.
I wondered if they stand close on purpose so their breasts could touch. Or if they're just being practical so they could hear each other over the din of the-
"You could try being less obvious, you know," Jo says-slurps as she and Edwards watch me.
"Hey I wouldn't blame ya," Edwards remarks as she pops a french-fry into her mouth, "Torres is HAWT."
"I don't think that's who she's looking at," Wilson corrects. And Edwards, with her newly-lasered eyes, realizes it.
"Ohhhhh boy." There's a hint of disapproval in Edwards' voice, and I turn to face her. Her eyes widen when she looks at my face.
"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask.
"She's a smiley grenade."
"A...what?"
"A smiley grenade. Like...someone who's always so cheerful even when they've been through hell? She may look friendly, welcoming. Heck, she has a teddy bear on her lab coat. But n-uh. There's darkness in her, waiting to come out. You've seen how her wife tiptoes around her."
"She's missing a LEG," I fire back, "who on earth would be happy about that? Okay, I'll clarify: who in their right MIND would be?"
"I'm just saying," Edwards continues, "all those itty bitty micro-agressions from the amputation are gonna add up. And God help anyone in the blast radius when it does."
"Plus her makeup sucks," Wilson adds.
"You are such a bitch!" Edwards and I chorus.
And three other tables turn to look at us.
Brooks shows up with a tray full of food and a chair, both balanced so awesomely that I wonder how the hell she doesn't spill anything. I know the answer, of course.
Physics.
"I touched a living guy's brains today," she announces.
In other circles, we'd probably have called the cops. Or asked if she buried the body in the woods, like we discussed last time.
"Like what the hell are you eating?" Wilson seems disgusted.
"Coleslaw," came the reply. "Best thing ever."
"Are you serious right now?" Jo won't let it go.
Edwards rolls her eyes. As if no one in the hospital had realized just how weird Brooks was.
"What do live brains smell like?" I ask.
Trying to distract myself with the conversation while keeping an eye on my love-interest's back. It's...almost... impossible.
Arizona Robbins has her back to me.
Her white lab coat slowly slides down her beautiful frame to reveal that she's wearing absolutely nothing underneath. We're alone in the cafeteria – unless she likes an audience. I'd be okay with that, as long as it was all women.
She turns to face me. I hate that she has her hair up. I walk over to let it down. She doesn't kiss me.
She mauls me.
In a second we're on the floor and my neck has hickeys on it. She's torn through my scrub top, my sports bra and has found my breasts. I've ripped my pants off, and I'm on top of her.
"D'you think she leaves her leg on while they're doing it?" I wonder aloud.
And the cafeteria is silent.
Dr. Torres and her wife are looking at me. Everyone is looking at me.
My last sentence is echoing off the walls.
And I'm...running.
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