Disclaimer: Not my game.
A/N: I felt free to fuck up the timeline, so don't get confused. Season 2, don't forget it.
"Tell me what you don't like about yourself. . . ."
"Well it sounds really stupid, but. . . . my lips. They're too thin. I want to be a model and to do that I need full, kissable lips, not these papery thin ones."
Sean McNamara and Christian Troy sat at their desk in the office of their posh practice of plastic surgery, hands folded, pens out, and skepticism ready.
"Have you ever had plastic surgery before Miss Bean?" Sean asked, his eyes looking strangely oblivious for the occasion.
"Um, no," She said gently, delicately pushing a few wisps of chocolate layered hair away from her tanned face.
Sandra Bean was a very attractive young lady, so it was understandable that she had explained she was trying to be a model, and therefore needed the surgery. They always did. The naturally attractive ones who dreamed of being fawned over in magazines and on runways.
Sandra had a light coffee complexion, hazel eyes, and gorgeous teeth. She'd always been charismatic and aesthetic, but she had worn braces for three years, and a retainer for yet two more, all the while retaining the hopes of being a model. The results of the orthodontics were immaculate, fixing the minimal underbite she had before getting them.
Her hair framed her face in a trendy just-so sort of way, tousled attractively this way and that, making her look like a windblown teenager, held in place with a yellow and tan polka dotted headband.
"Are you sure that it's completely necessary? I mean, it's not crucial that you have collagen injections, some models actually do very well with some less popular features," Sean tried again, making sure to inform her that deferring surgery could be a more healthy mental choice without actually bringing in the subject of mind.
"I understand that, like I know that Calvin Klein and Prada do like a freak of the week, cancer-patient, model thing once a year or thousand ads or something, but ah. . . . I want to be the best, and I hear that's you," She shrugged, her voice as flighty as all the other cosmetic surgery seekers that came in, trying to make it sound like an acceptable anecdote instead of a superficially driven motive.
Sean and Christian had their fair share of experience with that tone and knew absolutely every time what it meant to the girl behind the desk.
"Sean," Christian said, this being the first word he had said since their catch-phrase to kick off the consultation. It was actually rare that he stayed that quiet during an appointment with a pretty young girl who wanted to be closer to the mold to get ahead in the catty world of modeling, and facts; he usually sided with the patient because of their already evident attractiveness or future ability to be, based on the surgery. Christian was a member of the superficialist social party, anything to make people a little more fuckable.
"It's a career move. Possibly the only way she'll get a job in Miami that isn't at a Starbucks. You know the story, girls who don't get the right surgeries, by the right surgeons, never get anywhere then it was all just wasted time. . . No offence," Christian smirked at Sandra.
"That's pretty deep, Christian," Sean muttered under his breath, flipping through the anatomical diagrams until he found one of a face close to the same heart-shaped structure of the girl in their office.
"All I've ever wanted to do was be a model. . . . Nothing else. I need this surgery if I'm going to make it here," Sandra appealed to them. She could tell that Dr. Troy was already sold, of course he would be, she would have thought they both would have bowed at the waist toward the almighty dollar, this being Miami and them being cosmetic surgeons, but the more passive Dr. McNamara seemed to be more tentative towards how the request could affect her psychologically, instead of just her wallet.
"It says here that you're eighteen, Miss Bean," Sean made it a point not to smile at that, he wasn't in his normal happy-go-lucky mood today, "are you sure that this is what you want? You're so young and they do have temporary lip enhancing lipsticks for sale."
"I'm sure," Sandra confirmed earnestly.
Sean circled the set of lips printed on the paper face in front of him.
"Miss Bean, when we do the surgery we could either inject collagen into your upper and lower lips, or we could do something that's called a 'fat transfer' where we do liposuction on another place on your body, for example your abdomen or thighs, then inject the natural fat into your lips," Dr. Troy explained.
"What are the side-effects of either?" Sandra asked meekly.
"Well with the fat transfer there is a lower chance of your body having a allergic reaction or rejecting the chemical material in the collagen. With both there will be tenderness for about two to five days, possible bruising, and numbness for a short period of time," Sean told her.
"Uhm. . . Which one would you suggest?"
"Either would be fine, it's really the patients choice, the fat transfer is usually more useful if you, the patient, has some excess cellulite that they would like removed from a certain area, which is two procedures in one, but if you're at terms with the rest of your body then by all means the collagen is fine."
Sandra took a quick breath and held it for a second before exhaling noiselessly.
"Could you do my thighs? They're really not as thin as I would like them. I was just going to leave them, but if I can have more natural looking lips and thinner thighs too then, I'm okay with that."
"Okay, Miss Bean, we'll set up an appointment for Monday morning, how is that?" Christian suggested with a big attractive smile.
"Great. That should be fine," Sandra said, her thin lips spreading into an equally vogue smile for the two doctors.
She was obviously gazing at Christian, like she was stuck, rising from the chair her eyes remained on Christian's smug grin as she stumbled back over her purse which was on the floor. She caught herself on the arm of the chair and started laughing embarrassedly, leaning over to pick up her bag.
Christian raised his brow and dramatically stuck out his lower lip when she couldn't see, sending a brotherly expression of approval to Sean, knowing they both got a good look down Sandra's shirt while she was scooping up her things.
"Bye," she giggled nervously, backing out of the door quickly.
"Why do you always try and talk potential clients out of plastic surgery? You are aware that's why we don't have a bigger clientele," Christian commented to Sean idly.
"Our clientele is doing fine, Christian, most of our clients go to other business because of your sexcapades with them! If you did as many facelifts as hearts you break we might have less weathering in the books," Sean retorted, exasperated by his lecherous friend's antics.
"Oh yes, bite the hand that feeds, that's me. . . I'm not such a bad guy, Sean, half our clients are here because of me, and if that means taking a few. . ." He paused and chuckled, "test runs of our work, then I'm not complaining, and you shouldn't either. God knows you don't get laid enough," by now Christian was up and roaming the room.
"Just keep your hands to yourself for a while, and your dick in your pants, we need to build up our business just a little bit before we start running into the ground. . . . again," Sean replied rifling through papers. "I just don't think someone who's perfectly fine, needs to push for surgery because a high-horsed pincushion tells her she's not good-enough for their fashion rags!"
"Sean, this is about Julia's breast augmentation isn't it? Calm down, Sean, it's not the end of the world if a girl doesn't like her face, or in this case what it's really about is her chest. Julia isn't Kimber, she's just. . . feeling older than she should feel. We're not filling lips will collagen, or tits with saline. It's self-confidence. Not that I care, but you know, it's an out for your unstable conscience at the moment. Now, pull yourself together, we've got a nose-job in twenty minutes," Christian swept his coffee cup off the table and was out of the room before Sean had a chance to condense his lowered jaw.