Rosalind cursed in Italian as she threw her coat on a chair. Of all people. Of ALL people in the city, in the world, she had to deal with Brandon Winters again. With the perfectly tousled hair that looked like he just rolled out of bed and into rounds; how he made patients instantly at ease with his flirtatious wit and charm; and, mi Deus, those shoulders.
It wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t know what he was doing, but he did. His mind was amazingly creative, weaving down odd places that, even though not always right, and didn’t utilize all the evidence, still made a person think. He’d done that too often to her, presented hypotheses during team and made everyone think. Sometimes she would go home and mull it over, eventually dismissing it. Every time, she would growl at herself for wasting her own time and say she would never listen to this man and his cockamamie ideas – but she’d do it again and again.
Rosalind sighed and looked for a Mountain Dew Throwback. Winters would never drink something like this, not healthy. Probably still drank pureed carrots and wheat germ for breakfast or some other odd concoction.
“Ugh, I can’t get him out of my head again!” she cursed again in her native tongue. For four years of their residency and rotation, she often fought this idea when alone. She pictured that chest again, his bright eyes full of humor. She automatically put up the wall of denial when seeing him, and automatically slipped into Snippy Mode. As a psychologist, she knew exactly what she was doing, and why she was doing it. It was all a protective mechanism.
In school, she wanted her professors to respect her, because her entire culture was a throw back. Her parents were second-generation Nepalese Italians, who believed a woman could never really be a doctor. The women in the family were thrilled; the men seemed either amused or threatened. Regardless, her own father was condescending, saying that a psychiatrist wasn’t a “real doctor”. It didn’t matter that she spent six years in residency just like everyone else and had the school loans to prove it.
And then there was Winters. Clinically speaking, she knew she couldn’t let go around him because she didn’t trust him. Underneath that humor, he was actually being condescending like her family. His humor could cut her; he might not even notice. He always tried to get her to loosen up, but she would either buckle down tighter – and meaner – or she would avoid him altogether. However…however…
She remembered the night the ER seemed to explode. There was some sort of gang war, and they were inundated with people, gunshot wounds, radiation poisoning, you name it, they had it. Both of them were on that night, and both of them buckled down to work. She was an expert at easing pain, keeping bodily fluids in where they were supposed to be, extracting bullets and keeping patients’ families calm with her professionalism. He also eased pain, used his abilities to heal the wounds that didn’t need anything extracted from, and calmed the team, reassured them all – herself included – that they were doing a great job. They complemented and worked with each other, called for each other when one needed help, and concentrated on one thing and one thing alone, the patient. Nobody died that night.
At the end of that hell night, they both flopped down on an empty waiting room couch as dawn began to fill the lobby of the hospital. He put his arm around her shoulders and she was too tired to protest. She thought they both dozed, because she remembered hearing his even breathing as they sat there, and then felt someone rustle her hair. “Wake up, sleepy head,” she remembered his voice, thick with exhaustion. At least she made herself believe it was exhaustion at the time. For a moment, she was going to surrender.
Then she made herself remember what she was doing there. She couldn’t jeopardize her residency here; she wanted to work for the hospitals in Paragon. Nowhere else were things so interesting as in this city. There were many people – heroes especially – in need of her services, even if she had to often cheat to get them to talk. She put a hand on his leg, shoving herself off the couch, and walked away without looking back.
Their paths parted in their fourth year of residency, when she went into general psychology. She never knew what he went into, and really didn’t feel like looking it up. All she knew was that she was going to have to one of two things: Continue to fight, or surrender. She didn’t know if she had the energy to fight him.
She cursed some more. A lot more.
Words: 816
Music: The Boat That I Row – Neil Diamond (has really nothing to do with the theme)
Comments: Wanted an origin story for both of the new doctors in the New Arcane Order (I keep forgetting the Latin name). Hopefully we will have Brandon’s side. *hint, hint, nudge, nudge*