The room was black; it's only illumination coming from the microwave tucked away in the corner and the occasional flash of light from a car's high beams. With every passing vehicle, the modest kitchen would shift and swarm with shadows as light danced through it, every dark corner ruined by the shine.

And the bright white managed to destroy not only the void, but the long figure reclining against the marble counter as well. "Ah, shit," the woman hissed, hiding her eyes with a cleverly placed hand. "It's two o'clock in the morning, go the hell to sleep already."

Huh, good idea. So why are you up again?

Deciding to pretend she hadn't heard the traitorous voice echoing in her head, she only flinched as the microwaves timer chimed too loudly in the silence; signalling it was finished with its latest task. Turning around, she tucked the dressing gown tighter around her body and hushed her mind before reaching up to open the metal monster, hands fishing in for the warmed plate.

Only to regret it about three fifths of second later.

"Ow, ow, ow," she whimpered, dropping the ceramic on the counter with a loud clang. She barely resisted the urge to glare at the bowl in question, and instead moved to rinse her fingers under cold water, muttering curses all the while. It can't have been her day – night – if she was burning herself on bloody pasta.

Snorting, she timidly picked up the bowl – hands safely wrapped in a tea towel – and dumped it at the dining table, allowing her own tired body to fall into the nearest chair after it. "Burn your mouth, and you're dead to me," she warned her own body, forking some of the steaming food up and forcing it past her lips. Her stomach churned at the onslaught, and yes, her tongue admittedly tingled with what could have been a burning sensation – but she continued to go through the notions of chewing and tasting before swallowing the mouthful.

A sigh slipped past her reddening lips, but she repeated the actions with forced determination. Chew. Taste. Swallow.

It was an endless cycle of rinse and repeat, and her mind labelled it as dull within a few seconds, rendering her efforts mute. Letting the fork fall back to the bowl with a clatter, she slumped back against the harsh wood holding her up, eyes flickering over to the blind covered windows.

She was exhausted, her eyes burning, but her mind was too awake to even contemplate sleep. That was what she couldn't help but hate about surgery the most; not the fact that it tired her out, but the fact that it only tired out her body while somehow managing to make her mind full of energy. It was a little like a caffeine hit, only her body crashed long before her head did…

"Back door open."

Back door is what now? Whiskey orbs flitted up, confused shock painting the irises a darker colour as they shot to the corner of the room. The feminine voice her house had adopted bounced about in her head, and absently she wondered when she'd left the real world and fell into the one of horror movies and pathetically named bad guys.

Lookin' at you 'Paranormal Activity.'

Pushing to her feet, she licked her lips nervously; staring at the archway that would lead through to the washhouse and then to the back entrance of her home. If the rear door really was open, then whoever had broken in would be striding through there within the next few seconds…

Nothing.

"House, I swear to god, you better not be messing with me," she muttered, shakily stepping around the wooden monster of a dining table. There was nothing to indicate that someone actually had gotten in – no creaking of doors or the soft padding of feet on carpet – and with every silent second, she felt fear diminish a little more.

Her house was totally messing with her.

Her glare was enough to burn through metal as she wandered down the darkened corridor, feet lightly hopping down the short flight of stairs that led to the golden oak door. Only to find that it was open, a breeze letting a few leaves flutter through.

Well, fuc –

"Alright," she whispered, swallowing back the frightened whimper that bubbled up her throat. "The door opened. By itself. Without any assistance whatsoever by any hands skilled at lock-picking." It sounded like complete and utter bullshit, even to her ears, but she ignored the doubt and shot forward; slamming the door closed and forcing the lock back in place. Letting out a shallow breath of relief, she leant against the barricade. "See? We're totally fine. No machete wielding maniac today."

Feeling oddly proud of her own courage, she smiled at the shadows dancing on the walls, pushing from the door and starting forward again. As the adrenaline left her system, her shoulders sagged forward and her smile gained a genuine edge. Maybe she could sleep now, if she just closed her eyes and – holy shit

Any fear she'd thought had left her system came flooding back with a raging vengeance, forcing her muscles to a standstill and her mind to go quiet. A car had passed by her house – again? Did none of her neighbours know what sleep was? – and its headlights had bathed her kitchen in light and shown the withering shadows.

The withering shadows that revealed the form of a human being.

Her eyes had only seen the figure for a split second; not enough to discern anything other than the fact that someone was in her bloody house and – wait, how the hell had they got past her without her noticing?

The indecision on her part cost precious time, and with the next flash of a car's lights – no comment neighbourhood – she noted the figure had moved; the shadow larger as its owner got closer. They were boxing her in. Swallowing back any more hesitation, she tucked her hand into the breast of her robe, curving her palm in and creating the false shape of a gun with her pointer and ring fingers.

Before the next car could do any more damage, she took advantage of the momentary darkness and flitted through the archway and into the nearest corner. "I have a gun," she breathed out, pressing her hand against the material of her dressing gown to show the rough shape of a weapon. She could only hope the robber was stupid enough to fall for it.

The room remained silent and dark, and idly she wondered if her hope wasn't well founded when another streak of light interrupted the shadows. She could see her guest clearly now, his hulking figure hiding the glow from the microwaves electric time display and it made her stomach clench uncomfortably. He could easily overtake her, with one of his arms managing to look bigger than both hers put together and the thought was anything but comforting.

She was so boned.

The room fell into darkness again, and her free hand scrambled for the light switch; heart dropping when she realised she was on the wrong side of the doorway. She could hear footsteps, rapid ones, and knew the man was heading for her. She just had to get to the other side and the…

The kitchen flooded with light. The light switch.

The man was almost on her, menacingly huge and dark even in the lit room. On instinct, both her hands came up to stop his approach, left hand still curled into the innocent shape of a gun.

Both pairs of eyes snapped to the faux weapon.

Not a foot from her, the man's chest rumbled in what could have been amusement. "Mine's bigger," he murmured, voice rough and low, like he'd been weeks without water. While most of her mind caught onto the fact that she'd missed the opportunity to make an innuendo – god damn it – the rational part focused on the fact that there was now a cold, painful grip around her left wrist.

"Ah," she cried out weakly, feet trembling a little under her body and forcing her attacker to hold her up. "Let me go!"

The man made an annoyed sound, but didn't answer, instead only tugging harshly on her wrist. She recognized the gesture as a silent demand for her to hold her own weight, and complied, shakily managing to put her legs back under her body.

"P-please let me go?" she tried again, swallowing back another mournful sound. "I-I'm sorry, I j-just – you can have whatever you want, just please let me go," she pleaded, pulling uselessly on her own arm. His grip was unforgiving, and with every hopeful tug she gave, he tightened it all the more.

"The writing on your fence," the man drawled. "Claims you're a doctor."

What?

Her face must have shown her confusion, because he hefted her up and all but threw her against the counter beside him, not seeming to care when she yelped in pain. He took one step back and rolled his shoulders, ripping the sleeve of the dark over shirt he wore. The material was stained with crimson, already torn, and he grinded his teeth impatiently; forcing his face to remain impassive as he worked at getting it away from his body.

And whoa hello, body

Across from him the accused medical officer trembled, studying the way the intruder moved – and admittedly the way muscles shifted and worked under tanned skin. He had a grace she'd only seen in larger predators, and a haunted look she'd seen in her more private clientele, and it all screamed at her to run. Run far away, and never look back.

She'd barely seen past his dark mop of hair however before her years of training forced her to look towards the red marring smooth skin. "Oh, you're hurt," she realised, reaching out before instantly taking back her hand. "Is that w-why you came here?"

The man grunted out an affirmative, and some of the fear – some – drained again. She could deal with a wounded animal. She could totally do that. "Deal with it," he instructed.

Whiskey pools roamed over the deep gash on his upper arm, taking in torn flesh and dried blood. "I'm a plastic surgeon," she revealed quietly, shaking her head before huddling back into the counter. "I could fix your nose or remove a troublesome mole – but I can't deal with that. I'm s-sorry…"

Anger flashed in deep blue eyes, and the metallic sound of a blade grating against leather pounded through the silence. It seemed her guest was imploring her to re-think her decision. The cold metal had crept past the silk of her robe and was pressing against her navel, a silent threat as much as it was a show of power.

Machete wielding maniac it is…

"But. But I s-suppose I could try? If you'd like," she stammered out, shrinking back from the tip of the knife against her stomach. "My private office is across the house. I don't tend to do my w-work in there though, only consultations…"

His hand bunched in the material above the blade and he yanked her closer, the grip decidedly weaker than his other hand. Her eyes shot down to the wound again, darkening in sympathy when blood oozed lazily from the gaping hole with every movement. There was bruising, a whole tonne if she was being honest, and the angle his arm settled at screamed that it had been dislocated and then badly reset.

She was going to need to pop it out again before she could set it properly, and he was going to love her for that.

"Where?" he demanded, eyes narrowed and only a few inches from her own. They were a stunning shade of blue, and they followed her hand when she pointed through the open plan living room, letting her breathe out a sigh of relief as they found another target. It was like staring down the barrel of a gun. "Move."

Stumbling as he threw her weight forward, she barely stopped herself from falling face first into thick carpet, and hesitantly wandered forward, eyes peeking over her shoulder. Whoever he was walked with a sure gait, but there was pain pinching his brow with every step. But no limp though. His eyes shot to hers and instantly she dropped his gaze, looking back towards where she was walking with a shiver.

She hadn't been lying – she was a cosmetic surgeon, and an excellent one at that – but she hadn't exactly been telling the whole truth when she claimed she'd been unable to help. Before she'd been able to get her degree as a surgeon, she'd had to pass through medical school. And yeah, she still wasn't sure if it had been a necessity for the career she was now neck deep in, but it had been one for her parents; so she'd gone through the extra years without so much as a peep.

Anyway, the point was – the point was that his shoulder was going to be easy. Well, at least the one he'd revealed to her was going to be. Unable to help it, she looked back again, lowering her chin so it appeared that she was staring at the ground. His other shoulder was still covered by wisps of black material, but the arm from what she could see was pure silver, roped together like different components.

Was the hell was that? A glove? The shield, new and improved? Or just a stupid, childhood mistake he now had to live with?

Her musings paused when she realised she was staring at the darkly coloured door of her office. "It's just through here," she announced quietly, voice nothing more than a murmur as it carried back to her guest. The oaken door opened under a gentle push, and a plush carpet welcomed her bare feet as she entered, confidence rising ever so slightly at being in her natural environment.

So to speak…

There was a beautiful darkly carved desk that served as her place of work, and bookshelves lined the walls behind it, full to the brim with medical texts. It appeared cosy, warm, but the other half of the room was cold and sterile – an alabaster recliner acting as an examination table with a stainless sink and storage beside it. As she'd said; she didn't do her main work here, she had an office further in the city for that, but this was good enough for the smaller prep and exams.

Without prompting, the dark haired man – hunk, her mind corrected because he was clearly no mere man – boosted his body onto the chair. "Is it just your shoulder then?" she asked carefully, slowly moving closer. He had no qualms against man handling her, but she was hesitant touch him.

He gave a short nod, dirty hair slapping against his cheeks.

"Okie dokie then," she breathed, nodding as well before she moved to scrub at her hands under the faucet. "I'll need to put you under; I should have the supplies here because the wound is rather – "

"No."

Pausing at the interruption, she tilted her head his way. "No?" she echoed, brow furrowing in the middle. "You actually want to be awake? Do you know how much this is going to hurt, sir?" The last word slipped out before she could stop it, and the annoyed tick that mutilated his cheek showed her that she better be more careful with her tongue. "It would be best," she reasoned next.

"I don't want to be unconscious," the man stated firmly. "I can handle pain."

Pushing her hands into white gloves, she gave a short nod. "Sure you can," she muttered under her breath, moving closer and lifting both her hands. The stranger had leant back against the raised back of the chair, eyes glued to the ceiling in dismissal, so she gently pressed against the red skin, probing the area curiously.

It wasn't a life threatening wound. Yes, he'd lost more blood than she was comfortable with, but he wasn't going to die on her watch – or on anyone else's for that matter – which she labelled as good.

He didn't seem to be the forgiving type…

Humming in acknowledgement, she moved to grab the antibiotic and gauze. "So can I ask how this happened?" she questioned softly, pouring the copperish liquid onto the white cotton. It took little more than a second for the creamy colour to be stained.

"No," he answered instantly before a quieter; "Why?" followed.

She chuckled mirthlessly. "It's called making conversation," she quipped dryly, frowning as she wiped the surrounding area free of blood and infection. "And it looks very rough, ragged," she explained when he didn't reply. "I was wondering how you managed to do this to yourself. I would say knife fight, seeing as you're toting around a cheese knife on steroids, but a sharpened blade would've left a cleaner wound than this."

He studied her for a few seconds, eyes bright and knowing. "Debris," he answered shortly. "A broken shard of metal."

"How did you dislocate it then?" she demanded next, pretending not to notice the way his head snapped back to hers sharply. "You didn't reset it properly; may I just add."

Once again, his eyes roamed curiously over her features. "Then reset it. Properly," he commanded.

Sighing, she stopped working and offered him a tired glare. "Fine. But the wounds gonna start bleeding again," she grumbled, shaking her head. "Better that I do it now anyway, otherwise I'll probably tear up the stitches." Posturing herself against his side, she gripped his bicep with one hand, and pressed against his chest with the other. "This is going to hurt; you know? I have to dislocate it again."

"Can you?"

The simple question made her falter. Did she have the strength to force his shoulder out of place again? Looking down to her noodle arms, she frowned, but didn't want to give up the opportunity to get back at him for earlier – read: the bruises on her back and wrist. "Probably not," she allowed, years of medical knowledge flooding behind her eyes. "But it's not all about strength."

"What's it about th – " The demand was cut short by a short lived gasp as the male took a sharp breath in. His free hand lifted to curl around his torn shoulder, eyes dark with pain and what was probably anger.

"It's about technique," she murmured, adopting an apologetic look. "I should've warned you, sorry."

The look he sent her screamed that yes, she should've. Throwing him a careful smile, she moved to grab his shoulder in hand again, this time showing as much tenderness as she could as she slammed it back into place. It was a hard move, but she managed and soon the tendons and bones were back as they should be.

Bending, she studied the bruising. "It should heal up okay," she decided, pursing her lips before backing away. Her stitching materials were still in their sterile casings. "Listen, I'm a cosmetic surgeon… Do you care how I suture the wound?"

"What does your profession have to do with how you stitch the wound? You're a doctor."

She frowned, looking back to him in annoyed confusion. "I'm a cosmetic surgeon," she repeated. "I deal with making the rich look pretty. In simpler terms, I can do this quickly and as any other doctor would, or I can make an effort and avoid scarring or any avoidable damage to your skin."

His features took on a look of contemplation, a guarded edge taking over the blue hues of his eyes. "Take as long as you want," was all he replied with, face tilting upwards again as he settled back against the cushioned seat.

"Right, I'm going to take that as a make me look pretty."

Her hands moved to grab the curved needles she'd used to stitch and the dissolvable stitches she'd thread through. It was quiet and mindless work, the minimal scarring technique the most perfected one in her books. Knowing her mind would take only a few more seconds to fall into boredom, she lifted her eyes for a split second, taking in the pain lacing blue irises.

That was why she'd insisted on a pain treatment; even something that would only knock out the area would've been enough. But the strong edge to his lips told her without having to question, that he would turn her down. He wanted all his wits about him while in the stranger's home and under her needle. Looking back to her work and noting it was almost complete, she cleared her throat awkwardly.

Crystal eyes snapped to her face in a silent demand. What now?

She managed to hold the piercing gaze for all of three seconds. "Your name?" she hurried out, pretending the answer didn't matter as she looked back to his shoulder. "What's your name?"

Again, she was met with; "Why?"

Rolling her own amber eyes skywards, she continued with her absent work. "Once again, I'm trying to make conversation and I'm kind of putting your skin flaps back together, you know? Creates a special bond," she commented. "I also may be trying to distract you…"

He didn't question what she was trying to distract him from, and tilted his head so he could watch her without sitting up or straining forwards. Remaining silent for a few more tense seconds, he seemed to be mulling over what to say. "Tell me yours," he instructed, the rough tone of voice not exactly leaving her with many options.

Swallowing, she managed the brightest smile humanly possible. "Samara," she revealed. "Samara Mason, M.D."

His lips moved, sounding out her name before he nodded acceptingly.

"And? Your name is?" Samara prompted, eyebrows climbing high on her head as she cleanly finished her suturing. The wound was neatly closed and no longer dribbling red, but some blood still lingered on his bronzed skin.

Once again, blue eyes clouded over in thought. "James Barnes."


So, the updates won't be this often but I thought that you guys needed more to go on then a few hundred words. I hope you like it, it is a little bit forced to me, especially compared to my usual style of writing; but thankfully the next chapter is more comfortable and flows much easier.

Love you lots, and have an amazing day – cause reasons. Also! I don't own this, sucks to be me.

Taila xx