Author's Note: I thought I'd let you guys preview a couple of my most popular fics here on FFN! You should know that I will not be posting more than a handful of chapters of this fic here, as I am not willing to violate FFN's guidelines regarding MA-rated work, but if you like it and aren't offended by adult content, you can read this fic in it's entirety on AO3 or on my Tumblr. Scar Tissue, in total, is 20 chapters (104k) of angst and fluff and, yes, smut (heaviest on the fluff). It's my baby - the first multichapter fic I ever wrote, and by far my most popular fic to-date. I hope you enjoy.
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The cheerful chimes from her physician phone are anything but to Emma as she cracks opens a bleary eye and grapples blindly at her bedside table, hand flailing until it lands on the offending device. She flicks her thumb across the screen without looking and presses the phone haphazardly to her ear. "Captain Swan," she grinds out, clearing her throat.
"Emma, it's Elsa." The tone of her intern's voice is strained and gets Emma's attention immediately. "I'm so sorry to bother you, but I've got a patient with respiratory distress in 2102. Can you come?"
Emma sits up in bed as she processes the information, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes . "Yeah. Do you need the acute care team?"
"O2 sat is 92% on 2 liters, respiratory rate's 26, heart rate 110." Elsa rattles off the vital signs rapidly. "He looks okay for now."
"'Kay." Emma rolls herself out of bed, stumbling over to the light switch in the dark. She winces as she flicks it on, the harsh fluorescent glare forcing her to close her eyes momentarily. "Turn him up to 4 liters and draw a blood gas. I'll be there in a sec." She hangs up and glances at her phone, sighing at what she sees. It's 0432. The phone gets shoved into the back pocket of her scrub pants, and she takes a moment for a deep breath before heading out into the hallway, once more unto the breach.
She finds Elsa in the aforementioned patient's room hunched at his bedside, frowning in concentration as she draws blood out of the man's upturned right wrist. A nurse stands next to a portable vitals monitor, hastily jotting down the latest set of readings on a scrap of paper.
"How we doing?" Emma asks them as she enters.
"O2's up to 96% on 4 liters," the nurse reports. "Blood pressure's stable, 148 over 92."
"Lieutenant, this is Captain Swan," Elsa tells the patient. "Captain, this is Lieutenant Navarro."
"Ma'am." The lieutenant is a 45 year-old man with an olive complexion who smiles weakly. His left leg is set in a cast after a recent surgery and propped up on a pillow, and his graying bed head is rumpled to match his faded blue hospital gown.
Emma acknowledges him with a friendly nod, practiced eyes giving him the once over for signs of obvious distress and thankfully finding none. "'Morning, Lieutenant. How do you feel?"
"A little short of breath, Ma'am."
"When did it start?"
"Woke me up around 0400."
She watches as Elsa caps the blood sample and drops it into a waiting plastic baggie filled with ice to be sent to the lab. "Any chest pain?"
"Just when I breathe." He points toward his left armpit and hisses as he inhales deeply to demonstrate. "Right there. Like a poker."
Elsa catches Emma's eye. "Chest CT?"
"Definitely." She gives the younger physician a small approving grin and gestures for a tech who's standing in the doorway with an EKG machine to come in and get set up. "Lieutenant, we're going to check your heart rhythms and then arrange for a CT scan of your chest to see if you have a blood clot in your lung."
The man's brown eyes widen at her words, but he simply swallows and nods as the tech begins unbuttoning his gown in order to affix the EKG leads to his chest.
Their suspicions prove correct when the radiologist calls Elsa at 0540. The lieutenant does indeed have a new pulmonary embolism in his left lung, and Elsa texts her the news as Emma perches at a nursing station computer, a giant cup of coffee at her fingertips, glancing over lab results and vital signs for all of the patients on their orthopedic surgery service. She texts back the go-ahead to start blood thinners for the clot, and returns to her review of patient charts. Thankfully their patient list is not as long as it has been in recent weeks, and, barring any emergencies, the optimist in her estimates she can be done with morning rounds and have her progress notes completed by 10. After a couple years of doing this, she knows it's tempting fate to plan on being out of the hospital at any specific time, but she's been in this place on-call for almost 26 hours now, and she needs to see the light at the end of the tunnel.
When she and Elsa meet back up for rounds, she smiles. "Nice call on that CT."
Elsa absently brushes her icy blonde braid forward over her shoulder. "Thanks, and thanks for your help." Her smile is rueful. "Sorry to call you out of bed. I know you were in on that emergency surgery until 1."
Emma shrugs and shakes her head dismissively. " You're supposed to call me for stuff like that. You did great." She pulls out her folded patient list and raps it impatiently against her other hand, craning her head for signs of their boss. "I hope Mills gets here soon. I just want to get done and go home."
As much as she wishes for rounds with their faculty surgeon to be blessedly efficient, they are not. Major Mills, typically a brusque, no-nonsense taskmaster who's both bark and a fair amount of bite, is uncharacteristically chatty and sociable with their patients today. It's nice to see the Major showing her softer side, but it slows their workflow. Emma suspects the phenomenon has to do with the fact that the Major's boyfriend has just returned to D.C. from his latest tour of duty abroad; the woman is practically glowing as they follow her around the ward. Emma can feel her desire to go home growing exponentially with every tick of the minute hand on her watch, but she understands her place at the beck and call of her superior, so she hides her exhaustion and emotionally buckles down.
It's almost 1130 when she signs her last progress note and logs out of the electronic medical record system. "Huzzah," she says flatly under her breath, her voice cracking as she raises her arms skyward in a stretch, the euphoric sensation of sinew pulling and joints popping causing her to groan. Elsa's already signed out their patient list to the residents covering the day shift, and now all Emma needs is a stop in the cafeteria for more coffee to help keep her eyes open on the drive home. She feels almost sore with fatigue and incredibly grubby, and she wants nothing more at this moment than to clean off yesterday's make-up, wash her hair, and fall into her own bed for a few more hours of sleep.
Traffic in the cafeteria at Walter Reed Medical Center is fairly light for a Saturday morning. Standing signs advertise the upcoming Christmas hours and holiday menu items, and ornaments hang from the ceiling on ropes of silver tinsel. She drags herself straight toward the coffee machines as though their little red lights are homing beacons calling to her soul and plunks the largest paper cup available beneath the dispenser of the nearest machine. Before medical school, she preferred hot chocolate to coffee, but over the last few years she's converted out of sheer necessity, and her finger jabs the button for espresso, even though she knows what she's going to get isn't anything like the real thing. The machine begins to hum promisingly, but instead of coffee, plain hot water sputters into the cup.
Emma grimaces, her nose wrinkling. "Ugh. Really?" She's sorely tempted to let her head fall forward on the uncooperative machine in exhaustion and defeat. She's so close, so damn close to going home. She just needs enough caffeine so her sleep-deprived brain can operate her car with some semblance of safety. Come on, Universe, she pleads. Just give me this.
"Not what you ordered, love?"
The male voice with a British accent coming from the officer at the next machine over makes her look up - look up and stop breathing. Holy hell. He's tall and gorgeous, with a mop of artfully mussed inky brown hair, piercing steel blue eyes, and a few days'-worth of stubble lining his mouth and jaw line. Being in the military, Emma immediately surveys his dress (once she can tear her gaze off his dangerously appealing face). He wears a white dress shirt with a neat black tie and black dress pants. There is an unfamiliar rank insignia on his shoulders, and the strap of a time-worn brown leather messenger bag is slung over his subtly-sculpted chest. Her physician's eye picks up on the stump that peeks out of his left shirt sleeve, well-healed scars where the hand used to be.
She'll give herself points later for only staring at this beautiful person with her mouth open like a fish for two full seconds (maybe it was three) before she gives herself a mental shake and her brain revs back to life like a computer in safe mode. "Um, no. Unless that water is infused with concentrated caffeine, very much no."
He chuckles and steps back, gesturing toward his machine with his right hand. "Perhaps you should try this one."
"Oh. Yeah." Four years of college, four years of medical school, and two years of residency under her belt, and her verbal skills are reduced to this by a pretty face, she thinks woefully. But it is a very pretty face. She's fairly sure she's having palpitations. God, get a grip, Swan. She tosses her cup of not-coffee into the trash. "After you."
The man gestures again. "Please. Ladies first. I'm sure you've had a long night."
She suddenly considers how she must look in her blue scrubs, stained sneakers, partially-zipped red puffer coat, and slept-in ponytail, and she feels more self-conscious than she ever has in her life. "A little bit," she admits weakly, summoning the courage to look back up into his dancing eyes. "It was a 30-hour shift." Her knees are so wobbly she wonders if her ligaments have vanished, she manages to move in front of his machine without falling over (win!) and tries again to get her coffee. This time, the imitation espresso she's hoping for actually starts pouring into the cup. "Oh, thank God," she exhales, her head falling back dramatically.
He laughs and shakes his head in awe. "How often do they make you do that?"
Emma shifts the tote bag that's hanging on her shoulder. "Call shifts? This month it's every 4th night. I'm counting down the days until January."
"I would imagine. You're a doctor, then?"
She confirms with a nod, allowing herself a proud little smile. She's been able to call herself "Doctor" for over 2 years, but the thought still gives her a little thrill from time to time, especially when she thinks about how far she's come to be here. The machine stops filling her cup with the espresso precariously close to the rim, and she tears her eyes off him and tries to focus on snapping a plastic lid on it without scalding herself. "I'm in orthopedics."
His dark eyebrows rise in a manner that tells her he is suitably impressed. When she steps back from the machine, cradling her precious beverage and ready to be on her way, he clears his throat, scratching behind his right ear in a way that's kind of adorable. "You know, when I was in hospital with this," he says, raising his stump a fraction, "I remember the surgeons being there before dawn and well past dark." He starts the machine on a cup of French roast, turning back to her with a soft expression. "I guess it didn't really occur to me that sometimes you're there all night, too."
Handsome As Hell is being sincere (she has a pretty accurate feel for these things). Despite the fact that this is a place of food preparation, there is a disappointing lack of shiny metal surfaces nearby in which she can covertly check her reflection to see how badly her day-old eyeliner has run all over the place and whether her hair has migrated into an 80′s-style side-pony, but he's gazing at her as though she doesn't look like a major disaster. "Comes with the territory," she manages with a small shrug, trying not to color under his attention. "We all pay our dues during residency."
"Well, you deserve a lot of credit, uh… Captain, is it?" The look of uncertainty on his features as he tries to remember the rank of military physicians-in-training is endearing, and now she blushes fully, really not comprehending how it is this man is still talking to her.
"Yes, technically." She summons her courage and sticks out her hand, praying her palms aren't clammy. "Emma. Emma Swan. Navy."
His return grip is warm and solid, and the sensation of her palm in contact with his sends tingles up her arm and down to the base of her spine, like some strange reflex in slow motion. "Captain Swan," he says, grinning slowly from ear-to-ear. "I like the sound of that." He executes a small bow at the waist. "Killian Jones, at your service, Ma'am."
Killian. Unusual, but it totally works for him, she thinks. Although, she's pretty sure his name could be Leroy and her heart would still be racing. She's sad when he finally releases her hand in order to retrieve his coffee. Emma takes a tentative step toward the cashier to gauge whether he's going to come with her. He does. Her finger traces circles in the air as she points vaguely at his rank insignias. "I'm afraid I don't recognize…"
"British Royal Navy," he supplies. "Technically, Rear Admiral."
Now it's her eyebrows that go to her hairline, though she's not intimidated so much as intrigued. He seems young for two stars. He's either an outstanding officer or he's not as young as he looks. "Rear Admiral Jones," she says deferentially, "Sir."
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head at her. "Killian will do."
She smiles slyly. "Okay, Killian." It's her turn at the cashier, but he sets his coffee on the check-out counter at her elbow and is holding a credit card out to the cafeteria worker before she has a chance to reach for her wallet. Emma opens her mouth in protest. "You don't have to…"
"Of course not, Swan," he says, "It's my pleasure. I owe you surgeons a lot. This is the least I can do."
The female cashier looks expectantly at Emma, the bored look on her face making it clear that she doesn't have time for crazy women who have to think twice about letting a gorgeous man buy them coffee.
Emma glances at him with a raised eyebrow. "Are you going to pull rank on me?"
He blinks, as though he hadn't considered it. "Is that really what it would take?"
She finds she likes his answer. "No." She gives the cashier permission to take Killian's card with a tilt of her head. "Thanks."
They continue to walk in step together as they exit the cafeteria and move toward the hospital lobby, and while Emma is still exhausted, spending a few minutes more in this place doesn't seem like an awful proposition anymore. She sips her drink, humming softly with ecstasy as the hot liquid descends toward her core and she imagines that she can feel the caffeine flooding her bloodstream. "So you're an exchange officer," she observes, cup still hovering at her lips. What's your assignment?"
"I teach at the Academy," he replies, holding his coffee cup to his body with his left arm while he tugs the strap of his bag straight.
She takes another long sip, brow wrinkling. "Are you here visiting someone then?"
"Um, a lot of someones actually." He pulls back the flap of his messenger bag to reveal stacks of navy blue greeting card envelopes, neatly rubber-banded together. "A group of students prepared cards for the patients for the holidays. I volunteered to deliver them. It gives me an excuse to visit with the new amputees. I don't get many opportunities to do it with health privacy laws, but I keep hoping it'll help one or two people who've lost a limb to chat with a bloke who's been there." His gives her a sad little smile.
She can't be sure whether it's the espresso or him, but her chest feels warm as she stares at him, lips slightly parted in awe. Okay, so it's totally him. "That's… really sweet."
A muffled chorus of Barenaked Ladies' "Who Needs Sleep?" suddenly disrupts the air between them, and Emma silently curses as she fumbles her personal phone out of her coat pocket and silences the call with the barest glance at the caller ID. "Sorry."
Killian appears openly amused by her ringtone, then shakes his head sheepishly. "No, it's my fault; I shouldn't be keeping you. You need to rest." He holds out his hand again. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Swan."
The tingles return as she gives him a quick goodbye shake and reluctantly pulls away. "You too. Thank you again for the caffeine."
He gives a gentlemanly bow of his head, flashing her one last smile before backing up and moving off toward the elevators.
Emma watches him retreat and sighs, deciding the jumble of emotions rising up in her is just a little too much for her tired brain to process right now. Fine, Universe, she thinks wryly, as she heads out to her car, I guess we can call it even.
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It's late afternoon when Killian settles himself into his SUV and deposits his bag on the passenger's seat next to him with a heavy sigh, tilting his head all the way back on the headrest so his eyes are studying the gray fabric-covered roof above him. These visits to the hospital, while infrequent, are always draining, forcing him to unearth horrific memories of the IED that took his hand and so much more. He started coming because his psychiatrist thought it would be therapeutic for him to talk with other amputees in a role-model capacity. He keeps coming back because of the grateful looks he gets from the patients and their family members when he takes the time to show them, if by nothing other than his presence, that a new normal is not the end of all things, that life and career are possible in the aftermath of such darkness. Killian snorts – he has the career, he supposes, but the life part is questionable.
He brings his chin back down to his chest and rubs the back of his neck as his mind drifts away from the darker thoughts to the stunning blonde he met earlier in the cafeteria. Captain Emma Swan. He can still see her brilliant smile. He'd have to be an idiot not to have been impressed by her – the lovely young surgeon with dry wit and huge mossy green eyes that a man could get lost in. Her sleep-deprived state did nothing to hide her graceful cheekbones or her dimpled cheeks or the golden tendrils that flowed over her shoulder as she moved or the absence of a ring on her finger. Killian makes a fist and thumps his thigh with it. He wishes he could find a way to run into her again. That part is obvious to him. Whether it's a good idea is another matter entirely.