You're staring at the inside of your locker door, just trying to give yourself a minute to collect your thoughts. You blink. You sigh. A silent calm spreads through your body because you're by yourself, and for a moment, you avoid the constant trepidation warring your mind. Sometimes it helps when you flick your eyes over the heavily bent, many-times-taped photo of you and Quinn hanging from the inside of the door, or reread the worn letter right below it that your Abuela sent when you got accepted into medical school.
But right now, when you want to do nothing more than push Will Schuester in front of moving traffic, you think it might not be enough. You're worried you may still go out there and wrap your hands around his pompous fucking neck.
Leaning your forehead against the cool metal, you inhale deeply and count to ten. You stare down at your scuffed white Nikes and let your eyes trace the pattern of the discolored laces before you lift them back to that rotation schedule. With a valiant effort, you remind yourself it's not worth it. You only have two more days left in the E.R, and then you're moving to transplant, which likely means no more 80-hour work weeks.
And most importantly, no more Will Schuester.
When you originally got accepted into med school, you thought that was it; you weren't going to have to find a minimum-wage job and put up with unprofessional, stupid dickwads for the rest of your life.
What you soon learned is that being educated doesn't necessarily allow you to negate such assholes. Even once you move up in the world, the only real difference is that the people disrespecting you are more intelligent and more highly paid, meaning that when they insult you, there's an extra syllable and nicer shoes involved.
The thing is—you're exhausted. Maybe a little bitter as well. Because even though you're really fucking good at what you do, you know how to be humble. You also know how to be a bitch and go all Lima Heights on people too, which is why you have to get your shit together right now. You don't want to be that girl—the one who fucks up everything she's ever worked for because she doesn't know how to keep her mouth shut.
It's times like these when you really ask yourself why you couldn't just settle for being a primary care physician, why you insisted on surgical practice. At this point, you'd be almost done, rather than going through another year of residency and another two of fellowship practice.
The things we do for pride.
Perhaps that's not entirely it. You've always had high standards for yourself. You know what you're capable of, and you like to test your limits. That's how you graduated in the top percentile of your medical school, aced your boards, and landed yourself into a prestigious hospital.
Your drive is insatiable.
Your want is voracious.
And you're not willing to give that up just because you're a little bit irritable and tired.
The entry door creeping open forces you to snap your head up, shaking you a bit, and you begin to smooth out the front of your scrubs with your hands as the clerk peers her head in. "Dr. Lopez?" she asks in a soft voice, almost like she's afraid to bother you.
"Yes?"
"Dr. Schuester is looking for you," she relays.
"I'll be out in just a moment. Thanks."
With that, she timidly slips away and the door clicks shut behind her, and you take one more deep breath before you head out again.
"Lopez, so glad you could join us," Schuester voices with implication, like you've been gone for an elongated period of time (even though it was only five minutes); but you hold your tongue. He does a myriad of things that piss you off, and you're not even going to worry anymore about the fact that he has never once addressed you with the proper pronoun—the one that your medical degree and eight years of education says you rightly deserve.
You dismiss these thoughts and walk further into the examining room. "What do we have here, sir?" you ask in the best professional tone you can muster, glancing over at the African-American woman who's laying in bed, clutching her chest. Sheer discomfort is evident in her face.
Will eyes you for a moment before giving you a wry smile, and then says: "Mid-sternum crushing chest pain. Do you know how to properly assess this?"
You nod confidently. "Of course," you state, already gathering supplies and calling for Mercedes, the nurse assistant. As soon as she comes into view, you ask her to get you the E.K.G machine. The test is standard practice in this scenario.
But Schuester clearly isn't convinced in your abilities because he starts on you again nearly a moment later. "What is the leading diagnosis that brings a patient into the E.R with chest pain?"
You answer him without a second of delay. "Heart attack, acid reflux, anxiety disorders, or a panic attack."
"Good. What else can we gather in this scenario?"
"I'm not sure I understand what you're asking, Doctor," you answer, balling your fists, your fingernails digging into your palm. This is a cut and dry situation, and he's wasting your time. You have an innate need to go to the woman and begin treating her, but he's keeping you in your place.
"Well, as we can see, what we have here is a middle-aged African-American woman. This patient population generally has atypical presentation for a heart attack, with pain anywhere above the waist. Woman in general are also more likely to downplay this pain..."
You fight the urge to roll your eyes as he continues his tangent. You've been aware of this information since your second year of undergrad, and his rant is an insult to your intelligence. It is because of such tendencies that you can't bring yourself to like him, let alone respect him. You're also not about to foster his poor use of time, so rather than listen, you ignore his never-ending string of words and begin to work diligently. You start by introducing yourself to the woman, making sweet gestures like touching her hand gently to garner her trust, and since you can tell she's scared, you briefly explain what is about to transpire before inserting the nasal cannula. It's when her eyes give you an appreciative flicker that you know you can carry on promptly.
All the while, Will is still talking.
"Lopez, are you even listening to me?" He asks from behind you, standing there in disbelief, as though you've affronted him in some facet.
You feign concern. "Of course I'm listening, Doctor."
"Really? It didn't seem like you were listening," he asserts.
Silently, you tell yourself to breathe; two days is all you need, and then this will be over. Despite the fact he's an incompetent piece of shit, he is still your current attending supervisor.
"What are you planning to do here, Lopez?"
"Well, sir," you begin while pulling a needle from a drawer. "I was planning on drawing blood for troponin, performing an EKG, and writing an order for morphine to help control pain. Anything you would do differently?"
You challenge him with your words and direct eye contact, fully knowing your high level of competence. As he stands there, completely silent, it dawns on you that he wants nothing more than to see you fumble. Maybe he doesn't like you. Maybe he doesn't feel like women should be practicing physicians. If you're honest about it, you really don't give a fuck what he thinks; you just know he shouldn't be standing in your way when you're ever so capable of doing your job.
His mouth opens a few times, as though he means to speak, but nothing comes out. Then, he finally offers: "No. Carry on."
When Mercedes enters the room, wheeling in an electronic contraption, you watch Will leave through the brown curtain like he's been wounded.
You're glad when Will finally leaves at 5. Your other attending supervisor isn't a complete asshole, and he leaves you to pretty much do your job freely. It's a breath of fresh air, and you find that soon after, the day goes by like a blur. In fact, it's so busy that you wind up running your ass off just to keep up.
Around the tenth hour of your shift, you go down to the cafeteria in attempt to appease your grumbling stomach. Even though you're fully aware of the repercussions from not eating, you're used to that sharp pain that comes along with it. In actuality, since your residency began, you've lost a considerable amount of weight, mainly because you despise hospital food. Your body has been surviving off of blueberry muffins and coffee for months; mostly coffee when the muffins are stale.
Once you sit down, you eat at the pace of an Olympic medalist. You wash down the sweet cake crumbles with searing hot black coffee and find that it helps immensely. Already, you feel yourself becoming more alert, a little stronger than you were a half hour ago, and that prompts you to get back on your wobbly legs. When you stand, all the blood in your body rushes to your head, and despite knowing you need sleep, you persuade yourself to go back to work.
Upon your return to the E.R, you put a smile on your face and treat every patient with kindness. Your philosophy on humanity is something you pride yourself in. You believe in giving quality care and regarding your staff as worthy human beings deserving of respect. So often you see people in your position lose that, and it isn't something you want for yourself.
So you work.
And work.
And at one A.M, you're exhausted and still working, despite being scheduled to leave two hours prior. You can't though, not when things are so hectic. Every bed is full, the entire floor is in complete disarray, and you don't want to leave your colleagues in turmoil. So you smooth out the strands of unruly hair that are loose from your ponytail and bite your lip.
You work through the pain.
And that's when it happens.
You're reading the profile for bed three—a blunt force trauma patient—when you unceremoniously open the curtain. You peer in and see a familiar face surrounded by golden blonde hair sitting on the bed, her feet tucked under her Indian-style folded legs, reading an anatomy poster on the wall. Blue eyes flicker against the bright lighting, and all at once, the blood is back in your head again.
When she sees you, her eyes widen. She's looking at you just as curiously as you're looking at her; it makes your chest tighten and your throat constrict. Quite unsurely, you clutch your clipboard to your chest, holding it as though it's the only thing keeping you sound and sane.
It might be. You don't actually know.
Because it's quite feasible that exhaustion has taken its toll on you, thus creating illusions. It's not the first time it's crossed your mind — that perhaps this woman never really existed in the first place, but rather, you just dreamt her into reality. This in itself is a fruitless theory, however, because you remember everything down to the finite details—her legs; her lips; the perfect curvature of her breasts; the way her breath hitched when you slipped inside of her. It had your head spinning for days.
Now you're spinning again, only this time it's out of your control. Your mouth is dry. You feel that raw sensation as saliva travels down your throat. The ability to move, think, or speak has been abandoned.
And she just keeps looking at you, unraveling you in the most delicate way possible.
As much as you don't like it, you can't control the pull she has, drawing you into the room just a little bit closer.
It's then that you notice the fresh blood still glistening at the gash across the right side of her forehead, and a modest amount crusted and accrued near the corner of her brow. Your eyes trail down to the swollen cheek and linger on the corner of an angry, hot-red stung lip.
All you can do is look.
And pray that she isn't a figment of your imagination.
"Hi..." she says in this sweet, innocent manner that tangles your insides.
"H—Hi," you stammer back while silently cursing yourself for your inability to speak clearly.
She scans your face in a way that makes you self-conscious and hyper-aware of everything, like she isn't just looking at you, but she's really looking at you. You find yourself getting a bit lost in the shuffle.
Thankfully, a curtain being whipped open knocks you out of your trance.
"Dr. Lopez, I have the saline, betadine, suture kit and gauze you asked for. Is there anything else you need?" Mercedes inquires while wheeling a noisy metal cart further into the room.
She stares momentarily at you. Finally, you open your mouth in attempt find words again. "That will be all. Thank you," you manage.
The moment Mercedes leaves, you wish you would have found a reason for her to stay. You're so unsure of yourself right then, being scrutinized under that blue gaze, and it's becoming increasingly difficult for you to properly function.
You don't like admitting when your pride has been wounded. You're not one for emotions as it is; but the fact that she was the direct cause for such a sentiment leaves you feeling a bit bruised, even if part of you knows it was for the best. Any kind of commitment from you is bound to be fatal from the start; you thoroughly recognize this.
But right now, in this moment, it's like everything you felt that night has just suspended into gravity, hanging, leaving you stripped bare.
You try to push it down. You have to. You've got a job to do.
Slowly you move, listening to the harsh sound of your sneakers hitting the tiles, closing enough distance to properly examine her. Still gripping your clipboard, you force yourself to glance down at her name above the thick black line, knowing you need it to accordingly address her.
With great determination, your face stays stoic as ever.
"Ms... Pierce?" you finally ask after eyeing the near perfect handwriting. You make a mental note of the impeccable way she forms her lower case A's and sharp curvature of her B's. It's entirely fitting with her personality.
When she looks up at you and nods, smiling a little bit now that you're speaking, it makes your stomach churn. You hate how awkward this is when all she needs right now is a fucking doctor.
You get your shit together.
You grab a pair of gloves from the table next to you and slip them on. She's watching you intently as you stay close, and you move just a little bit nearer, inspecting her skin.
"If it's okay, I'm going to..." you trail off.
She blushes. "Oh yeah—whatever you need to do," she replies quickly.
You've never been subjected to such a dilemma before. You see hundreds of patients a day, touch some of them much more intimately than you're about to touch her, been privy to their most personal matters, and you've never had an issue before.
Now, you're struggling just to articulate words.
With valor, you swallow thickly and bring your steady fingers down to her forehead, gently pulling at the skin, investigating how deep the gash is. Through the dried blood, you see a shallow laceration warranting about eight stitches. You lean in, your eyes finding the torn skin on her lip; you hold your gaze at the purple bruise forming across her cheek, and because you just have to, your fingers to flutter over the damaged flesh for the briefest of seconds.
In response, her body goes rigid, and you immediately pull away. Your hope is that she will assume it was accidental, just a mere slip of your fingers...
Backing up quickly, you begin, "Well, uh, you only need about eight stitches. It looks worse than it really is. Did they send you down for an x-ray already?"
She bites down on her bottom lip while she contemplates your question, her eyes flickering from you to the floor. "I think so. They had me doing a bunch of stuff earlier."
You nod. "Good. I'll go take a look at those, and then we'll get you fixed up."
You step away to check on her x-rays, and upon your return, she's sitting right where you left her, looking a little more comfortable than she did earlier. When she notices you walk in, a soft smile creeps across that perfect, candid face.
You have to remind yourself that the gesture is probably not meant for you; more likely, it's meant for the intangible conception of possibly leaving soon, or the contingency of strong prescription medication that only you can supply. You're just a catalyst in every scenario.
It's not for you.
Even if that night it was for you.
You could've sworn it was for you.
But that was months ago.
And this is now.
And she left.
And you're so unbelievably unavailable there is literally nothing you could offer her.
These are the things you remind yourself when you speak again. "Your x-rays look fine. You don't have a concussion. We'll get you some low dosage Vicodin to control the discomfort for the next week, some stitches, and get you out of here."
"Thanks," she says sweetly, her eyes lingering on you again. She's twirling her fingers together nervously, and you bite down hard on the flesh of your lip, vaguely remember just how good they felt buried inside you.
Your face flushes. You need to get it the fuck together.
You push the metal supply tray near her bedside and begin prepping yourself. You really don't need to prep, you just need the extra moment to assure that your fingers don't fumble.
Yet she keeps gazing up at you, and you really wish she wouldn't.
"I'm just going to have you lay flat so I can..." Again, you can't seem to finish sentences.
"Oh. Right," she replies.
She acquiesces and falls back against the bed, allowing you to begin your careful ministrations. You find that once she closes her eyes and is no longer looking at you, it's exponentially easier for you to concentrate.
You pick up the needle and begin to work slowly. The silence hanging becomes prevalent. You can feel it surrounding you, weighing down the air of the room. You're desperate to cut through it.
"So uh..." You ask brazenly as you begin to gently clean the torn flesh with saline. She winces. "How did you manage this?"
You make small talk sometimes when you're a doctor. It doesn't mean anything.
But it means something to you when you notice her blush.
"It's stupid," she admits.
"Well... what if I promise that I've heard worse?"
"I mean, I'm sure you have. That doesn't mean I want to tell you my embarrassing story." You chuckle a bit, feeling your mood lighten considerably because she's talking to you with such ease.
"But I want to know your embarrassing story," you encourage.
She smirks, and after the dried blood has been removed, with a prowess, your hands begin to work in a steady rhythm of precise movements. They're pushing and pulling, beginning to stitch her back together again.
She still hasn't spoken.
"You know, it's necessary information for hospital documentation. Besides, I have to make sure you're not a domestic abuse case." You say it, but you know this situation isn't domestic abuse. You've seen enough of those types of wounds to know the difference.
"No one beat me up, if that's what you're asking," she replies.
"Okay, so what beat you up?"
"A shelf," she blurts.
You smile. You can't help it.
"A shelf?"
"See, this is why I didn't want to tell you," she pouts.
It's your turn to blush.
"Well, what did this shelf exactly do?" you inquire curiously, the slightest bit of play in your voice.
As if it were a natural reaction, you find yourself slowing your movements. It's like your hands won't allow you to work any faster than at a slow, delicate pace—one that garners you a few extra moments with her.
"If you must know, it wasn't the shelf's fault—it was Lord Tubbington's. I knew I shouldn't have put his catnip up there."
You turn your head to the side and tuck your bottom lip between your teeth, trying not to chuckle at her admission. She catches you though, and immediately opens up her mouth to berate you. Traced with the slightest bit of frustration, she says, "You're laughing at me!"
"No, no—not at you, at the shelf," you correct her. This engenders some kind of unintelligible groan to escape from her lips and you laugh again.
"Well, all I can say is that Lord Tubbington must have really wanted that catnip." You tease while slowly threading the last suture.
"The thing is, he knows he's too chubby to get up there. He's knocked it down before, only this time, it was while I was sleeping."
"Hence the getting beat up," you state, cutting off the end of the string.
"Yep."
"Well, look at the bright side: you got to hang out in the hospital waiting room at 1 a.m. on a Sunday night with all of Cleveland's finest. I'm sure you overheard some pretty entertaining conversations."
She laughs; you can tell it's an honest laugh. You're actually quite certain it's the only way she knows how.
"Yeah... some lady kept asking me if I took her purse."
You give her your best serious face while beginning to place gauze strips across her wound. You can smell sleep on her breath as it wisps across your face. "Well, did you take her purse?"
She smiles. "Of course not."
You can't help but look at her wistfully, loving the way she juts out her lower lip; it's almost a pout—but not really. It's so innocent, so fragile, and you think it may be the most adorable thing you've discovered about her yet.
And it kind of scares you, because you want to discover all the little trivial details that make up who she is—like if she needs complete silence when reading, or if she keeps the windows open at night, or if her pillow smells like her shampoo.
You practically tremble you're so scared.
"Well, you're all set," you tell her. "I'll have Mercedes bring you your prescription. You should follow up with your regular doctor in about ten days, have those stitches taken out." She stands and stretches. The look she gives tells you that she has a question, but she isn't sure if she should ask it.
You underestimate her though, because she does.
"What about you?"
You raise your brow inquisitively. "What about me?"
"Can't I follow up with you?"
Your throat catches again as several undetermined feelings flutter in your stomach.
But you keep it professional.
Because you are a professional.
This is what you do.
"Well, that seems silly. Coming all the way to the E.R. to take out some stitches? Besides, I'm moving to transplant in a few days. We don't handle those sort of issues there."
Her eyes look a bit crestfallen and she nods carefully, but you can tell she isn't broken.
"Take care of yourself, Ms. Pierce."
Even though you're the first one to walk away, part of you wonders if she watches you go.
To say you're nervous for your first day on transplant would be an understatement.
It's only the most pivotal rotation of your career; no big deal.
You're shadowing two surgeons that are both extremely gifted and highly renowned, and while you know this is the moment you've been waiting for, it's still intimidating. You're one Latina woman swimming in a sea with two dozen privileged Caucasian men. You have to outwork them. You have to know more than them. You have to prove you're just as capable, if not more so.
You have to be better, period.
Your shift starts promptly at 6 a.m., and you get there a bit early, strung out on your third cup of coffee. You've been up since 3, trying to decide on which pair of suit pants were more fitting to wear under your lab jacket. You were worried about the way the tight grey pair hugged your ass; it may have been sending out a message that you didn't want to send, and that's not how you plan on working your way to the top.
When you walk through the pale double doors, your heart palpitates. You wipe the sweat from your brow, curl your fingers in an apprehensive anticipation. It's all for none though, as you're pleasantly surprised by a welcoming atmosphere of smiles. The floor clerk greets you in an incredibly friendly manner, showing you to your locker and offering you free access to the numerous boxes of donuts splayed across the break table. You're speechless. It's never been like this before—so free, so lacking chaos.
You take a deep breath and start getting settled in.
You're shrugging your sweater off your shoulders when you hear "Hey," from a male voice not far behind you.
When you look over, you see his hands rummaging through the endless boxes of donuts. Your eyes slow trail over him, studying his demeanor, and you know he's a nurse because of the dark blue scrubs he's wearing.
He walks over, offering a wry smile just before extending his right hand. You take it and shake firm, noting the way his dark brown hair is strategically swept to the side.
"Hi."
You smile, but not cautiously. There's something trusting about his face. You like the way he makes direct eye contact, but not in a confrontational manner.
"I'm Kurt," he informs.
"Santana Lopez."
"Lovely to meet you. Sticking around for a while?"
"Six months, maybe? Hard to say." It's an honest answer. You know that they're going to keep you here longer than anywhere else, as this is your desired area of expertise. But they could potentially send you off to general surgery as well.
Kurt rocks on his heels and grins just before taking a bite of his chocolate covered donut. "Well, we're awesome, so you should stay here."
"Is that so?" You tease.
"Of course. Transplant is the best."
"I'm sure you are," you confirm, flashing your eyes at him playfully.
"Well, I look forward to seeing you around, Dr. Lopez."
"Likewise," you tell him, watching him carry half his donut in his mouth as he walks out the door.
You settle in a bit, and once you make it out to the floor, you find Dr. Yuik, your attending surgeon, standing at the nurse's station. He's a short Chinese man with a wide set face and who walks too fast. He constantly uses his index finger to push his thick-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose. At first you're scared of the fact that he rarely talks, but soon you learn it's because English isn't his forte. He just likes to keep his word count to a minimum, giving direct and concise answers, wasting little time. It's a dialect that likely comes across as rude to most, but you know this isn't his intention; you can tell by his paralanguage and the intonation of his voice—it lacks egotism or the need for accolades.
By the time 1 rolls around, he basically tells you to go enjoy yourself and sends you on your way. You're in complete shock; you haven't taken a full one-hour lunch break in over six months.
You don't even remember what the cafeteria looks like at this time of day.
It's nothing you can't figure out though, and you locate some crappy Saran-wrapped sandwich with too much lettuce by the soda stand. You sit down and try to appreciate a non-rushed meal, even if only half of it actually gets eaten.
When you find your way back upstairs and locate Dr. Yuik in a patient's room, clicking the tip of his pen while going over discharge paperwork, you take your place next to him. His instructions are frank, but thorough. You love the fact that he isn't married to technology, that when he's in a patient's room his devices stay silently in his pocket, and that he gives people his full attention.
You also realize after shadowing him for a few more hours that he is a fountain of knowledge. His range is broad. When asked questions not pertaining to the surgical unit, he can answer them without a moment's hesitation. You hang on his every word, just wanting to see a little further inside his brilliant mind, hoping to one day possess just a fraction of what he has.
You cannot count the ways in which you admire him already.
And because of that, the day goes by quicker than you even realize.
Your shift is supposed to end at 6.
When the clock hits 6:14, you're walking to the elevator.
At 6:22 PM, you're in your car, and you can't believe it.
In fact, you're afraid to think about it too much; it's like if you try to wrap your head around it, you just may want for it again.
The music hums uncharacteristically low in the background as you drive. You're used to having to crank it just so you can stay awake for the fifteen minute drive back to your apartment; but now as you're listening just to listen, it's a strange context.
When you get to your barely lived in one bedroom, you kick your shoes off near the foyer with a pleasant sigh and walk past the small stack of dishes in the sink. You can't remember the last time you had the luxury of such free time, so you immediately head for the bathroom. There, you turn the shower handle to scalding hot and let the tub fill half way. Before you settle in and let the waves kiss your achy muscles and tired limbs, you flick your iPod to shuffle. It's a valiant attempt to fill the silence—one that allows you close your eyes and submerge yourself in the warmth of tranquility.
It's the best night you've had in forever.
The next morning proves to be busier than the last. There is an influx of patients early in the morning, two of them which have to be prepped to go into the O.R., and the floor is filled to its maximum capacity. It's strange because the calm you experienced yesterday has been replaced with strenuous glances and panicked steps. Even Kurt's smile has somewhat diminished, but he still takes the time to shoot you a quick grin as you pass glances in the hallway, an effort meant to lift your confidence, surely.
It's nice, you have to admit. And it kind of works.
But you're so busy writing orders and making rounds that your mind quickly forgets. Everyone seems to be making your job harder. In the late afternoon when your fresh kidney patients come back from the O.R., you're all over the place, having to constantly check blood and urine labs. Room 7 is struggling to maintain heart-rate, your labs haven't come back yet, and twice you have to argue with the pharmacy over medication mishaps. You're so agitated that you nearly throw your expensive-as-hell stethoscope at the wall.
Right around six Kurt comes and taps your shoulder from behind as you're checking vitals. You eye his wry smile quizzically as he pulls you aside, like he has some silly secret he wants to share with you.
"Yes?"
"Well, it seems that you have a visitor." You lift your brow and his grin grows rather wicked, as though he's implying something.
Quite confounded, you respond, "Huh?" You honestly have no idea what or who he's talking about.
"Well, it so happens that there is a really cute blonde standing up at the front desk, asking for a Dr. Lopez; that would be you, correct?" His wide smile expands farther, and your pulse picks up a bit. If it's who you think it is...
"Tall, long legs..." He nudges you.
You roll your eyes at him, your stomach growing a bit uneasy. "What are you suggesting there, Hummel?"
"Oh, come off it," he teases.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," you feign, but in truth, you're a bit panicked. No one in your professional life has ever known about your sexuality, and you're definitely not comfortable with changing that now.
Despite your heart fluttering, you finish up writing an order for the nurse before making your way over to the desk. There, you see her—face still a bit battered, but exponentially better than the last time you were in her presence. Currently she's leaning her back against the wall, dangling a white paper bag between her fingertips, with a pink umbrella tucked under her arm.
That's when you finally notice the rain pattering against the windows for the first time. You also notice the tight jean shorts she's donning, and you stare quite guiltily as your eyes never seem to settle on her face. They keep flickering over her thighs and calves, appreciating the way her muscles tighten as she presses the weight of her foot off the wall. You're suddenly thankful for the unreliable September weather, as it has given you the generous gift of staring at her ankles, even if just for a little while.
You hate how your body just reacts on its own volition; you don't even get a choice in the matter. Your heart just randomly picks up speed any time she's around, and your breathing gets shallow, and...
You stop in your tracks before her, your mind lost in a parallel of serious wonderment and sexual frustration. You're not sure which one takes precedent, but you kind of have an idea.
"Hey," she offers, those blue eyes flitting over you ever so carefully.
You feel your cheeks heat under her stare. "What can I do for you, Ms. Pierce?" you ask, your voice even-keeled, your intentions made perfectly clear:
Professional.
Arm's length.
But she doesn't skip a beat, remaining completely unfazed. "Well, I have these stitches that need to be removed, and my regular doctor doesn't have any appointments until October. I heard something about a really good doctor on this floor, and I figured I'd check it out..."
You blush again.
You'd be lying if you said her smile didn't make you want to smile—that when you see the corners of her lips form that tight crease and slip effortlessly, that your heart doesn't levitate.
Yet...
"Ms. Pierce, I'm flattered, really, but..." She studies your facial features curiously, looking for something.
"But what?" She asks bleakly.
"This is a transplant unit, and we're extremely busy right now." The words come out so matter-of-factly that you immediately dislike yourself, especially because of the dejected expression she now wears. You're not certain why she's here, or what exactly she wants from you, but you're not going to truly entertain the thought of finding out. Because you know how this story pans out, and she's too lovely and you're too reckless—full of empty promises and half-hearted attempts. You've let down many of her predecessors; you're sure it's bound to happen again.
She studies you before saying anything else. "Maybe I could wait until you're not busy? Or until you take a break? I brought some soup. It's chicken and dumpling, so it's pretty much the best thing ever." She holds the white bag up and gently shakes it, as if to tease you with it. You chuckle slightly.
It amazes you how she does this; she has this strange nature of saying exactly what's on her mind, but in a way that always seems to make sense. You're not sure what to think of it. It's unnerving, yet somehow still amiable.
"I appreciate the sentiment, but I can't. If you'd like to leave your number with the receptionist up front though, I can ask her to help find you another physician with available appointments."
Her gaze falls to the floor. "I just... I kind of wanted it to be you," she admits.
And your heart rate picks up again.
"I'm flattered, but I can't. I'm very busy right now; I have to get back." Her eyes look for yours again, and then they're there, holding you tight, keeping you locked in. The effect makes you count time in your head as the seconds pass.
"Maybe another time," she says.
You shrug without thinking about it.
She sets the bag on the desk next to you, her eyes still trained on yours. You avert your stare to the ground, unsure you have the strength for anything else. "Don't forget your soup. It's from that bistro down the street; it's amazing," she reminds you gently. So gently. It forces you to recognize the slow pace of her voice, like patience is the underlying message she's trying to get across to you.
Even her insignificance has significance.
There's also something steady about her movements as she pivots on her feet, preparing to walk away, exuding a courteous certainty. You take a moment to contemplate the gesture—the ease, the flow, how she's graceful even in simplicity, and it serves to remind you how unlike everyone else she is.
"Thank you," you barely make out.
And just as you think she doesn't hear you, she looks back at you for the briefest of seconds.
Consequently, you almost reach out. You're only a reflex away, a hairsbreadth of distance from doing so. You know because you approximate it. Your desire to exist in the space that she resides in is that powerful.
Yet, you don't. You falter. You watch as she makes her way down the hall, waiting patiently before the elevators. Again, you want to reach. You wish for things you don't usually wish for. You wish for the absence of complication, for more than twenty-four hours in a day and willpower and...
You make silent whispers of wishes, like a time when Brittany Pierce isn't the most important thing in the room.