R É U N I O N
A/N: Big thank-yous to Claves for her great help, and to Hannah for beta-ing my little fic...
I've now decided that this fic is going to be dedicated to the rest of y'all FRU peeps, -excuse the suckiness though-, 'cause little old me feels touched and loved even when I'm in troubled waters.
Excuse the sappiness too, I'm feeling rather emotional.
Adel, Stella (Starry), Chloe, Sarah, Hannah, thanks for being there.
Chapter I
Suze
"Hey, Doctor Simon!"
"Good morning, Suze!"
"Had a nice weekend, Simon?"
I smiled wearily and waved, as I weaved my way through the bustling crowd of doctors, nurses, apprentices and patients, to the office with the plaque "Dr. Peyton" on the door. Peeking in through the blinds of that office's "window", I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw that the interior was decidedly void of humans, or rather, one particular human. Or maybe he's an alien from a planet tens of thousands of miles away, and eats humans for breakfast.
I bet you're thinking now: What? Suze is actually scared of somebody? Oh, call the presses!
Seriously, you'd be scared of him too. The 'him' being my mentor, Dr. Maximilian Peyton. I've only been under him for about five months, and already I've been yelled at him for coming in late –Jesus, it was only two minutes- for exactly ninety-six times. Let's see: ninety-six over –rounding up- hundred fifty would be... sixty-four percent. Yeah.
But I do know some women who would love to get yelled at by him; just as long as he notices them, they'll be happy like hell, because, well... I guess you could classify him as hot, with black hair and dark grey eyes, and there's the fact that he's tall too. But looks really are deceiving; I bet you wouldn't be able to tell what a Grade A ass-hole he is even with a million glances. If he thinks he's going to get any action with that superior-I'm-king-bow-to-me attitude, well, he's got another think coming.
Lemme tell ya just what a jerk he is.
Just the other day, Nurse Kelsey from Ward 55 tried to flirt with him, by saying that only he could carry off the Dr. Kovac –at least I think that is his name— air when wearing his doctor's coat, and guess what he said?
"Yeah? Sorry, but I don't watch ER. It's an asinine show watched by lust-crazed spinsters who have nothing better to do with their lives."
That was what he said. I am not even kidding.
She came to work with red eyes for almost two weeks.
I've nicknamed him the Iron Mask. Really, I've never seen him showing any emotion on his face before, with the exception of displeasure, which is the expression he wears practically 24/7. Most of the time it's apparently because of me; "Simon, can't you even prescribe an antibiotic correctly?", or "Simon, you don't conduct a vaccination that way!", or "Simon, stop being so fricking slow in taking Mrs. Hemmers' blood pressure!" or "Simon, can't you do anything right?"
It's actually his fault that I mess up sometimes. I mean, I get nervous if there's someone breathing down my neck, hissing instructions at me –three guesses who that'll be, and he always assigns me to the hardest patients too! Sometimes it's in the emotional sense, sometimes in the physical one. I swear, that... thing is really trying to make me fail in my ambition of becoming a doctor. Maybe he's even made it his personal quest or something.
Gah.
Anyway, I trudged into the office and sighed as I dumped my bag –Louis Vuitton, bought with my own money too, heh—onto my little desk; which, by the way, wasn't that little, but it was minute compared to the Iron Mask's. Plopping down on my chair, I sighed and swung my feet up onto the desk.
The Iron Mask would freak if he did witness this... My propping of my feet up on my desk, I mean. The thought itself cheered me up. God, he is such a neat freak... I wouldn't be surprised if he turns out to be gay or something. Gay guys aren't always neat freaks, but you have to agree that they're generally more sensitive about neatness than the straight ones.
Think about something else, Suze. You don't want to burst your carotid arteries thinking about what a slave-driver your mentor is.
I didn't even have to try; the stubborn, wincing pain that remained in my feet pulled my thoughts to yesterday's Junipero Serra Mission Academy, Class of '98's eighth year reunion. The pain in my feet was primarily caused by Adam, who had claimed me one too many times for slow dances the night before. I think he flattened my toes; or at the very least, crippled them for good. They felt like they were going to drop off.
God, it was good seeing him, CeeCee and the rest of my classmates again... Although I must say that Kelly was still the whiny brat I had known –and not loved— eight years ago, and Debbie... well, she got engaged to Dopey. Hah, they deserved each other. But I'm not quite looking forward to being the aunt of a bunch of Dobbies and Deppys.
Gag me.
As for CeeCee and Adam... let's just say the class clown has finally woken up and smelt the roses. CeeCee cried last night when he went down on one knee for her, after five years of dating, eating and (ahem) sleeping together.
But... happy as I am for them, I can't help but feel a little jealous too. I mean, God, do I feel ever so relieved that Adam finally proposed—CeeCee was always scared that he'd "come to his senses and find a better woman" (her words, not mine). But...it's like, it has always been us three together, even after so many years, and infrequent visits to each other, it was always Adam, CeeCee and Suze. But from now onwards, it's going to be CeeCee-and-Adam and Suze.
And much as I wished for it to be, there wasn't going to be a CeeCee-and-Adam and Suze-and-Mr. Right. Ever.
Because I don't have the energy to be left behind again.
Bitterness welled suddenly in my heart, stirring up dusty memories of a pair of inky-brown eyes, a scar on an eyebrow, a warm, deep voice murmuring Spanish endearments...
The photo of my mum and me –which was taken when she had taken me to Disneyland in my twelfth year— that I had displayed on my desk became blurred all of a sudden; as more of what was past flitted across my mind's eye. I stared hard at the polished mahogany pine of my desk, concentrating until the haziness of my surroundings had vanished.
"It's all your fault," I muttered to the empty room. "All your stupid fault, you stupid asshole of a...cowboy. Vaquero. El bastardo. All. Your. Fault." I grabbed my little cat plushie from beside the picture and squeezed viciously, breathing deeply in rhythm with the squishing I was doing. Breath in (squeeeze), breath out (relaaaaax)...
It was a form of de-stressing for me, and er... It has nothing to do whatsoever with the fact that the plushie in question kind of looked like a certain cat that once lived in my home in Carmel.
I shook my head and sighed as I forced my train of thoughts to go in another direction. To go down that particular memory lane... It was too painful. I suppressed the image of those warm, deceptively caring brown eyes as they flicked across my mind again, and sought frantically for another topic to think about... Yes.
Someone didn't come to the reunion yesterday; I remember the teachers talking about it, but I didn't catch who that person was. I frowned as I mentally sifted through the faces I had seen yesterday. Let's see;. CeeCee, Adam, Brad, Tad, Bernadette, Kelly, Debbie, their entourage... I flicked through the list of names in my head and... Oh. Paul.
Paul Slater.
That's right. He wasn't there.
Can't say I was surprised though... he probably had more important things to do than attending a little class reunion. Like filching more money off the families of criminals (he's a high-and-mighty, rich, soulless lawyer now). Or boinking tall, lean, gorgeous supermodels.
Wait a minute. Why am I thinking about him, anyway? I don't even care.
I shrugged mentally to myself and leant forward to flick off a clump of dirt that had clung to the underside of my Jimmy Choos. Inspecting the heel, I thought—
"Simon! What the hell are you doing? Get your feet off that desk!" At the sound of the I.M.'s bark, I lowered my feet hastily to the ground and got up. "Good morning, Max—" At his glower, I swallowed the rest of the words and corrected myself hastily, "I mean, Dr. Peyton, sir." Actually, what I meant was Bad morning to you, you stupid, stupid, smug, I-am-your-mentor-hear-me-roar, bastard of an Iron Mask.
Gah. Did that even make any sense at all?
And yeah, about the "sir" thing. He absolutely refuses to let me call him Maximilian, Max, or even Peyton. Oh, no, His Iron Maskness wishes for his subject to call him Dr. Peyton, or sir. S-I-R.
We're living in the twenty first century, for Christ's sake.
"Had a nice weekend, Simon?" He didn't even give me time to reply before he continued barking out instructions. "We have a new patient in the OT now; white, male, identity not confirmed; they're trying to contact his next-of-kin now. Was injured rather badly in a car collision—"
"Hit and run, sir?" I ventured tentatively, only to have my head bitten off. Metaphorically, of course; else I wouldn't be here now, would I?
Oops. I'm rambling again. Sorry.
He glowered at me. "Didn't your mother teach you any manners, Simon? Never interrupt your superiors! Now, back to what I was saying before I was so rudely cut off— He was wounded rather badly in a car collision with a lamp post; apparently the man swerved to avoid a child and crashed into a lamppost instead. I'm assigning you to him now—"
"You want me to operate on him?" I squeaked, surprised –and elated– beyond belief. I mean, asking an apprentice to be the main surgeon; and especially when the patient was involved in a car crash? Well, that's... that was practically unheard of. To give me free rein to head such a huge operation; that would signify that I've been elevated from "You can't do anything right"-Land, correct?
But it seems like I've counted my chickens too early. They didn't even hatch.
"Are you insane, Simon? Let you hold the scalpel? Either you'll turn the man into mince-meat, or you'll mix your arteries up. Or you'll inject the wrong anaesthetic. And stop interrupting me—"
"Sorry, sir" I said meekly before realising— Yeah.
He scowled. Oh, if looks could kill. "As. I. Was. Saying. Before. I'm assigning you to him; but as one of the two assistants to Dr. Rourke, who is heading this operation. I expect an utterly flawless performance from you this time, Simon. No messing up of drugs or anything else, do you hear me? A life is at stake."
I fought an urge to roll my eyes; seriously, did he think I was some...ditzy bimbo or something? I mean, I'm not stupid; I know the gravity of the situation. Did he seriously think I'll mistake local for general anaesthesia, and I don't know, chloroform for morphine? Or something like that? Do I look like I have cotton fluff candy for brains?
"Really, sir," I voiced the more polite of my thoughts out loud. "I think after so many years of medical training, you can expect me not to mess things up. I'm reasonably confident that I would be able to differentiate the aorta and the vena cava."
"So you say, Simon, but are you really so sure, eh? What about that time, you messed up that Carter kid's subclavian vein and artery? And that time when you gave that old lady Paradrine instead of Dimenate? Their names are so different, I don't even know how you could have mix the two up. And what about telling Nurse Jones' son that he was allergic to Amoxycilin when he was allergic to Denzen? And what about labelling Brufen as Murdexin—"
A knock on the door interrupted his tirade.
"Sir?" One of the interns poked her head through the space between the half-opened door and the door frame. The Iron Mask glowered at her, his annoyance evident at having his favourite pastime cut short. Yay me; I'm Gimme-a-Verbal-Lashing Suze. Five bucks per go, please.
Oh, hahah.
God, the subclavian vein and artery thing? I was nervous. It was my first operation, for Christ sake. And he was breathing instructions down my neck too, how was I supposed to not be jumpy? I was wrong, yeah, but no harm came to Neville Carter anyway! And the Paradrine as Dimenate thing was also a mix up, but it was corrected before Mrs. Tomas –who was the old lady in question— had taken it, so all's well ends well. And the Amoxycilin thing was a joke with little Billy Jones –and he was fully aware of said joke too; long story—; as was the Brufen/Murdexin incident! And guess what? The first two incidents happen in the first month, when I was new and tense and scared, what with such a mentor.
Seriously, who wouldn't? Be scared, I mean. Just look at the intern.
"Yes?" He snarled at her, and the girl quaked visibly. Poor kid; she looked like, what? Eighteen, nineteen years old? And having to put up with this kind of stuff already. She gulped audibly before answering him. "Sir, the patient has been identified; and the next-of-kin was reached."
"Really, sweetheart. Don't they teach you anything nowadays? If the patient has been identified, then of course the next-of-kin has been reached. How else do you identify the patient then? By telekinesis?" The Iron Mask responded icily. Oh my God, must he be so mocking and insensitive? She made a teensy-weensy mistake, is all.
The intern looked like she was going to burst into tears, and I don't blame her one bit. I would too, that is, if I was face-to-face with someone like the Iron Mask seven, eight years ago.
Note, however, the emphasis is on the words "seven, eight years ago". But now? Thick-skinned, thy name art Suze.
For which, I have to thank a certain Latino someone. For hardening me, I mean. Jeeze, this sounds like an Oscar-acceptance speech.
"Well? What're you waiting for now? Christmas? The New Year? Or an engraved invitation?" The Iron Mask continued. Or snarl-tinued, more like. The intern squeaked and finally found her voice. "N-Name... I mean; patient is identified as one Mr. P-Paul Slater, sir. N-Next of kin is one M-Mr. Jack Slater."
Oh, my God.
A/N: -snicker- There, I've updated.
Personal review replies (I've grouped the similar replies together):
Hannah: Ew to the Spam Whore thing. She Who Shall Not Be Named's er, name falls upon my ears like a four letter profanity. No more, no more! –curls up into a ball and puts hands over ears- HAHAH.
Bratsie: I moved said part of my anatomy! Satisfied with zee update?
Mrs. Nikki Slater and Flonshoe: Heheh, you think, dears? I am a slave for Paulie. –snickers-
DemonicBallerina: You're Elaine, right? Chloe's Elaine? –blushes- Sorry, I have a really bad memory. And I am feeling honoured. Thanks!
Adel: Monny won this time; your review was only the second. Poor thing; are you devastated? –smirks- Anyway, thanks fer all yer help, darling. Luff ye. –snoggles-
Aina: Heheheh, partly. Was reading the first chappie of Torrid, with my Prologue half-written, and the only thing left was to confirm their ages. And then I was thinking, why not? That way, it's neither too young –eg. eight/nineteen—, nor too old –around their thirties.
And you felt sorry for him? YOU? The Sharkester, devotee of Jesse and Paul-disliker actually felt sorry for my Paul! –cheers-
Starry: -bug-eyed- Although I wouldn't mind much if it's Paul's boinking instrument. And here's another chapter for ya, and Paul'll make his appearance in Chappie 2!
treehuggr344: Well, well, well. Ma petit Monny! Longest review there, ye've go'! Aww... luff anyfing Oi wrote? Yer ter kind! An' 'ee's ner dead. Paulie, Oi means. 'Ow coulds 'ee be dead? Oi luff 'im! Why woul' Oi kill 'im, eh? And yes, Suzie is ah mediato'. But there weren't be much focus on mediafing stuff. 'Tis 'un's is a romance, it is.
(And yes, I was trying and failing to mimic a Cockney accent on paper. Or the 'Net.)
Suze, Alysonne, CeeCee, i like, memememe, cUtE-gAlL: Thank you for your reviews and your extreme displays of enthusiasm for my story.
Laursie, Nicole, jexseymysterious, Golden Angel71, sofie, black-rose-xo, Jasmine, Dawn, Monny's stalker (Heheheh), marie, Cassy, thanks for your reviews!
Now press that little purple button again, s'il vous plait. You know you want to.
-snaps punjab-