#doctor Cox

[fellthemarvelous]

The "You're Wrong" song brought to you by Doctor Cox feat. bad Aziraphale takes.

"Aziraphale chose Heaven over Crowley"

"Aziraphale picked sides"

"Aziraphale is abusive"

"Aziraphale doesn't really love Crowley"

"Aziraphale deserves to be punished"

"Aziraphale is stupid and naive"

"Aziraphale only cares about himself"

"Aziraphale is power-hungry"

"Aziraphale doesn't care about Crowley's feelings"

"Aziraphale is the real antagonist"

Please enjoy the original song in all its glory!

If I've forgotten anything, feel free to add it!

[thehornysideofgeology]

Doctor Cox from Scrubs.

That's it. That's the post.

[wings-of-an-antelope]

The Sweet and The Spicy

Dr. Cox X Female Nurse.

Dr. Perry Cox liked to start his morning out, one of two ways, either he'd head to the cafeteria, get his morning cup of coffee and spend his morning going over the charts from the night before, or he liked to lean on the counter of the nurses station and wait 'casually' for Nurse Clover to appear like she did every morning.

She always had a smile on her face, not a too wide smile, nor a smile that seemed too bright, a small smile that let everyone around her experience just a little light in their day. She brought her own scrubs every day, a cute little green number with little four leaf clovers decorating the collar and pocket hem, her hair, red like fire, pulled up on the top of her head in a large well maintained bun, not a single hair out of place, even as her work day stretched on forever.

Perry had worked with Nurse Clover for years and watched her from afar for just as long, he dared not insert himself into her life, he wasn't right for her, he was mean, cruel, stubborn, he was rough and violent at times, she needed someone who wasn't him. He'd come to terms with it, settling for the sparse moments he was able to manage in the hospital. Limited as they were, he enjoyed them.

This morning however Perry's morning was going neither of those ways, today JD had stopped him at the front desk, his frustration with the younger man interrupted immediately by a voice that turned his legs to jelly.

"Dr. Cox, getting a bit of a late start? You're usually by the station long before me." She smiles, not the usual smile she wears every day, this one takes the breath from his lungs so forcefully he has to stop himself from gasping for air.

"Just a little busier on the way up there today." He smiles, what he hopes is his most charming smile as she bids him good day with a little wave of her hand, disappearing through the doorway, his eyes can't leave the doorway until she's completely out of view.

My heart slams in my chest as I do my best to walk like a human being, its just a little stroll through the door but every interaction I have with Dr. Cox sends the muscle in my chest into palpitations, I'm praying every moment that I don't trip. As soon as I'm out of view I try my best to gather myself, by the time I actually make it to the nurses station I've managed to slow my heart rate but also tame the blush that had heated my cheeks the moment he'd opened his mouth.

"I know that face, YOU saw Dr. You-know-who!" Turk was sitting on the counter waiting to get his daily dose of my inevitable train wreck encounters with Dr. Cox. Or rather the train wreck after the encounters.

"He was down in the main lobby..." I sulked a little bit, earning a smile from Turk who shook his head in support of my plight.

"No time to prepare... that really sucks. So.... how did it go?" He pushed, wiggling his brows and waiting for me to dish the details.

"Actually, it went pretty well, I commented on his not being on the floor already, he answered back that he was busier than usual.... it was after I walked away I turned into a mess." I couldn't help the little dramatic dip that my whole body seemed to want to participate in.

"Was it bad?" He asked his eyebrows shooting up over his forehead, the expression on his face was one that I didn't quite understand.

What I couldn't see was the death threats being thrown over my shoulder by the subject of the conversation if Turk ratted him out.

"You know how it gets Chris.... My legs get all wobbly, I was so sure I looked like an idiot walking out of there.... It was all I could do not to make a fool of myself in front of that Spicy Adonis." I sighed, letting my head fall back against my shoulder blades, in an attempt to ease the tension forming a little ball of pain there.

The moment my head settled, I was met with what I can only describe as the most beautiful and painful moment of my life. The shock of meeting the eyes that haunted my days caused me to jolt, my muscles spasm, ripping in places and causing me to let out this shriek of both pain and surprise before dropping in mind numbing, bone searing pain. Then there was nothing, just black.

Perry Cox had never in a million years expected Nurse Clover to hurt herself when she saw him, he didn't really understand it himself but she'd torn muscles in her shoulders and along her spine, he'd managed to catch her before she hit the floor. Barking orders to the gathered group of nurses and doctors, she was settled into a bed and being treated within minutes, her charts drawn up and her admission papers signed, by himself. Now he reclined in the uncomfortable orange leather in the corner of the room, waiting, for her to awaken.

"Dr. Cox? Could you clarify something for me?" Nurse Clover, who's chart stated that her name was actually Emily Clover, called softly from the hospital bed. She looked tired and small under that white blanket.

"Anything." He answered, honestly.

"You heard what I said?" Her voice seems even smaller now.

"Yep." He pops the P and her cheeks burn bright red, the monitor at her side clearly giving away her elevated heart rate.

"Just Perfect..." She whispers almost to herself, turning her head away from him as best she can in the small confined space.

Perry takes this moment to make his way to the other side of the bed, settling on the edge of it with his hip sitting sideways as not to take up so much of the small bed, not giving her the opportunity to turn her head away, his hand brushes some of the hair out of her face, with it cascading over her shoulders in loose waves, slightly tangled from the removal of her hair piece, he noticed maybe for the first time, truly how much hair she had.

"I think we should talk about this, Emily." He stated, looking deep into the ocean blue of her eyes, she looked so uncertain, the sound of her name leaving his lips deepened the color of her iris'.

"Can we just forget this happened? Go back to the way things were... before?" She questioned, cheeks bright red, heart monitor beeping away setting off alarms at the nurses station. Nurses occasionally walking up to the door, then turning away and retreating.

"After what I heard this morning, I don't think I could ever go back to the way things were." He placed his hand under her chin, using gentle pressure with his index finger to guide her gaze back to his when she dropped it dejectedly.

"Bo-hoy-hoy-hoy hearing you call me a Spicy Adonis did things to me. Emily, I could never go back because I've kept myself away, worried that I was wrong for you. " He lowers the hand under her chin, choosing instead to run it over his face to accent his point.

It seems to take her a moment to fully process what he was saying, he could see her expression turn from an uneasy tension to one of dawning realization and then he was graced with possibly the most amazing smile he had ever seen.

"Clarify something for me?" She asks, her eyes meeting his, a twinkle of joy glimmering in their depths, making his heart skip several beats, he feels eternally grateful that he's not the one hooked to the machines.

"Anything." He smiles.

"Does this mean....?" She left the question open ended, hoping most likely that he'll finish it for her.

"It means, in a couple of weeks when you're discharged, we're going to dinner, then back to my place." He grins as she turns bright pink, her little hand motioning for him to lean down so that she could whisper in his ear.

"Where I'm going to make you see stars and, roar my name." The tip of her tongue flicks over the lobe of his ear distracting him just enough that he didn't see the nip coming.

"God help anyone who gets in my way." He grinned, a wide Cheshire grin, his pager beeping on his side, checking it he leaned down, brushed hair from her face and placed a soft kiss to her forehead, rated E for everyone standing outside the window, staring in, departing swiftly as he stood.

"Best of luck, Dr. Cox." She smiled, an externally innocent smile, but underneath he could see the promise she'd made boiling.

A/n: Who has a date? This Guy! ^ ^ ^ ^

[tagedeszorns]

And I will draw this scene with Fabius as Dr. Cox.

I neeeeed to.

[farfromstrange]

Do No Harm

CHAPTER ONE: Night Shift

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: Matt has to accompany Foggy to the ER in the middle of the night because he dislocated his shoulder. In need for some peace and quiet, Matt wanders the halls of Metro General and instead finds you crying in one of the abandoned hallways. A conversation ensues.

Warnings for this chapter: Slight angst, mention of injury.

Word Count: 4.3k

A/n: My brain gets the strangest ideas for fics and then I have to write them or else I will go crazy. This is how this baby was born. Keep in mind, I’m not a doctor. I simply watch a lot of medical dramas and I like to research medical terms for the fun of it. Heed the warnings for the entire series (see Series Masterlist) but also chapter-specific warnings that apply, as seen above. I hope you enjoy!

Read Chapter 1: Night Shift here on AO3

Ever since he can remember, Matt has hated hospitals. The antiseptic scent that lingers in the air, the sterile white walls that seem to close in around him—it all brings back memories of days spent in agony, tied to an uncomfortable bed, and seeing nothing but an endless void of black.

He can only tune out so much. The stench, the sirens, and the overlapping voices in an emergency room—they could easily kill him. 

Hospitals remind him of what he lost. He lost his vision, he lost his father and in the process, he lost his innocence. Matt lost everything, and even though he is well aware that it isn’t the hospital’s fault that he decided to save a man or that his father made a deal with the devil and got himself killed, he still hates the same empty walls that made him feel so small to begin with.

Matt doesn’t want to be a liability, he doesn’t want to be the reason the people he loves get hurt, and yet it continues to happen time and time again.

Maybe he’s cursed. It’s the only explanation for how things are going for him now. Maybe God has a grudge and finally decided to exercise his right to make his life a living hell. There is an infinite number of possibilities, but none of them make sense. 

He’s the anti-hero of his own story and that of everyone else who has ever dared to let him into their lives. He’s his own worst enemy, his personal saboteur. His unwavering pride has a tendency to get in the way of his happiness, which often leads to more bad than good, but admitting that would leave him vulnerable and exposed—and he can’t let himself get hurt again. 

It’s better to push the people he loves away before he can hurt them and force them to walk out on him the same way everyone else in his life has walked out on him ever since he can remember. At least in his twisted mind, that’s true. 

He never thought he would find himself in Metro General again, not since Claire came into his life. Claire, the caring nurse who saved him when he was on death’s door and continued doing so until she realized that falling for the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen comes with its own set of risks. 

Foggy dislocated his shoulder. 

It’s almost laughable. Out of everyone, he chose Matt to come to the hospital with him. Not Karen, Matt. He had the choice between the most empathetic person either of them have ever met, and Matt, someone so far out of touch with his own feelings, living in denial has become the standard for him. Foggy chose the latter, for whatever reason he doesn’t even seem to know himself. It just felt like the most natural thing to do, he told Matt when he asked his best friend, “Why me?”

He should feel honored that he trusts him that much, but being trapped in the sterile four walls of the hospital he only connects bad memories to while Foggy is stuck in the queue for an X-ray feels more like torture than an honorable act. 

The loud, demanding voices of the nurses, the painful groans and soft cries coming from the patients in the waiting area of the emergency room a few doors down, and the obnoxious beeping of the machines lining the walls in every room are like a swarm of bees in Matt’s inner ear. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t get them out. He’s allergic to them.

The room smells of disinfectant, blood, and other bodily fluids. He tries to focus on his cologne and the scentless laundry detergent he has grown so accustomed to over the years, but the balm only lasts for a few seconds before the wound reopens and his senses are flooded.

Matt keeps rhythmically tapping his fingers on his thigh. How much longer he can sit on this uncomfortable plastic chair in front of the radiology area and wait for Foggy to return, he doesn’t know. It won’t be long now until he loses his mind. He is about to drown in his own misery.

He feels the desperate urge to land his fist in the wall next to him. He wants to scream, cry, maybe even both—this night is not going well. He hasn’t had a good night in weeks. Tonight though, he’s stuck in the hospital rather than outside, doing something against the injustice he is forced to listen to every day.

The hits he took the previous night were pretty severe, and his ribs still hurt. The numb ache that tears through him whenever he moves is a temporary relief from the pain induced by the noise around him. Whatever bits of sanity he tries holding onto eventually slip through his fingers. 

Eventually, he can’t take it anymore. He gets up, his head tilting toward Foggy’s elevated heartbeat. He’s still in line. Fifth, probably.

Matt taps his cane against the floor, making his way down the hallway. He’s not quite sure where he’s going or where he will land, he just knows that he needs to get out of there as fast as possible.

Rounding the hundredth corner of the evening, the sound of clattering metal trays and medical supplies disappears behind layers of drywall and automatic doors. Matt takes a moment, and he realizes that right here—right where he is now—he can finally breathe again.

The sound travels more easily. The air wafting through the vents and over the cotton sheets on a row of empty beds is the only sound that meets his ears. They’re lined against one side of the wall. The rooms are empty, the doors locked. It seems as if in a moment of desperation, he found his way to one of the abandoned parts of the hospital. 

A lack of funding caused Metro General to cut their losses. It certainly wasn’t an easy decision, but with capitalism on the rise, public hospitals are barely holding on.

Even though the truth is depressing, Matt still can’t believe his luck when he realizes how quiet it is. That may be a selfish thought, but he can't help it. The world is always so loud and uncomfortable. Finding someplace quiet after torturing himself in the waiting room for hours feels like heaven on earth on such a busy night.

The fog dulling his senses finally dissipates. He takes a deep breath. The air is cleaner here. No disinfectant, only the faint scent of plastic and dust; he wouldn't have thought it possible that he would ever consider that combination a blessing.

That’s when he hears it—a slightly elevated heartbeat followed by a series of muffled sobs. He got so caught up in the fact that he finally found what he was looking for amidst the chaos that he forgot to fan out his hearing.

Despite what he originally believed, he isn’t alone.

The air smells of the salty essence of human tears. Matt stops dead in his tracks, not sure whether to continue his journey or to turn around and return to the uncomfortable plastic chair in front of the radiology department.

“This nervous breakdown space is occupied,” your soft voice bounces off the high walls. It’s thick with exhaustion. Pain. Loss. He almost recoils at the all-too-familiar feeling it elicits in him.

Matt keeps his cane hugged tight to his chest, his knuckles whitening with how hard he is gripping the base. “Oh, I...I’m sorry,” he says, careful to keep his voice light. “I didn’t catch you there.”

You’re essentially a stranger to him. A troubled one, at that. You must have your share of problems or you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t be crying your eyes out. He doesn’t want to intrude, but he also can’t turn around. Not now, not anymore. You’ve already noticed him.

You sniffle, your hands wiping against the soft skin of your reddened cheeks. For a moment, your heartbeat picks up in speed before returning to its normal rhythm. “It’s alright,” you assure him.

Matt picks up on the faintest hint of disinfectant and the scent of antibacterial soap on you now, maybe a little blood, and definitely antiseptic laundry detergent—you’re wearing medical scrubs.

Your shampoo smells of vanilla and some herbal element he can’t quite identify just yet. Your perfume isn’t expensive, just enough to last through a long shift and filter the sweat that is seeping out of your pores. It’s not unpleasant. You smell like someone who’s been working hard and far past your limits, too.

“Do you need something?” you ask him. 

He pauses for a moment, rethinking his answer. His lips purse. He’s not sure how to answer that without completely giving himself away.

Your eyebrows raise slightly.

“Oh, just…some peace and quiet,” Matt says, finally finding his voice again. It sounds a bit more nervous than he would like to admit.

The chuckle you exhale is one of surprise and possibly even a bit of genuine amusement. “Yeah,” you sniffle, “I know that feeling.”

“Well, I’ll, uh, leave you to it. Sorry again.”

“No. Don’t.”

Matt stops in his tracks when the words pass your lips. 

You pat the space beside you. Your perfume becomes a little clearer. It’s so natural, so… you. He could get high off of it. Or maybe it’s just the sleep deprivation catching up to him. 

“This is the only quiet corner in this hospital,” you tell him. “Trust me. Underfunding has its perks for introverts. Rest in peace to about thirty internal medicine beds, but lucky me.”

Your chuckle echoes bitterly off the walls. You use humor to cope, apparently, but you’ve run out of strength to pretend.

His cane begins to gently pave the way as he makes his way forward. “Do you mind?” Matt nods toward the bed you’re sitting on. 

You pat the mattress again with a shake of your head. “Not at all.”

Gentle seems to be the one word that is consistent with everything you do. He can’t get this picture he has painted of you based on the sound of your voice out of his head. Maybe you’re an angel and he has officially gone insane, or maybe there are just a lot more good people left in this world than he originally thought. 

Matt folds his cane and skillfully sits down on the edge of the mattress. You smell even better up close. Your heartbeat reminds him of a beautiful symphony, no longer as erratic as when he first picked up on your presence. 

“I’m Matthew, by the way,” he says.

He can hear a sudden uptick in your heartbeat. He may have just imagined it. You suck in a sharp breath, and he’s sure he didn’t imagine that, but then you lift your hand to take his.

“Olivia,” you say. 

Matt listens closely. You have no reason to lie about your name. Your heartbeat may be faster, but it isn’t a lie. You just seem a lot more nervous and unsure than before. It doesn’t quite make sense why you would be unsure about your own name.

“Nice to meet you, Olivia.” His lips curl into a soft smile.

You smile back, he can hear it, but it lacks an essence of truth. You’re trying hard to seem like you’re okay. It’s not your fault that his senses are sensitive to all changes in the human body, even in that of a stranger he just met.

You’ve been crying, so of course, you wouldn’t be alright. The question is, why? 

“I take it you’re not part of the staff,” you say into the silence.  

“No.” Matt chuckles. “I, uh, have a friend with a dislocated shoulder,” he says.

“Ah! Let me guess, his doctor in the ER reduced the dislocation but insisted on doing an X-ray just in case, so now you have to wait because radiology has a hold-up longer than the Nile?”

A laugh rumbles through his chest. “Yeah, that… that’s pretty accurate.”

“It’s always like this,” you say. “A dislocated shoulder doesn’t have priority. We have bigger fish to fry.”

“You work here?” he dares to ask. 

You pull at the bottom of your scrub top. “Guilty as charged. Trauma surgery. I’ve been an attending here for a little over two years now.”

“Oh, wow! That’s…that’s incredible.”

Matt has encountered his fair share of doctors in the past, but no one has ever been quite like you. You’re unique. Mysterious. An enigma. You have piqued his curiosity, to say the least, and your profession only adds to the pile of interesting things he can ponder about.

You smile at him again, but it’s still not a genuine one. “Thanks,” you drag the last syllable out, the air deflating your lungs.

He swallows. “Or it isn’t. I didn’t mean to–”

“No, that’s not… some days just aren’t that rewarding,” you say. “That’s all.”

“And today has been one of those days?” Matt asks.

“Yeah, something like that.”

Your eyes roam over him once again.

He reaches for his hair, running his hand through it. He ruffles the brown strands until they’re covering his left temple. Matt’s not sure if you saw; there is a high chance that you did, but he can't anticipate your behavior. Not yet. 

You let out a longer breath. “Not a fan of hospitals, I take it?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “It gets… loud,” he says. 

“Sensitivity to sound.” You nod. “Noted.”

He hears the fabric of your scrubs brushing against your skin and the cotton sheets on the bed. You cross your legs, opening yourself up to him just slightly, and he wonders if you really are comfortable around him or if you’re just being kind. 

“Probably to smell as well? Feeling? Taste?” There is a soft smile laced in your voice. This time, it’s real. 

Matt chuckles. You hit the nail right on the head. You’re simply not aware of how sensitive he is to these things. “Pretty sensitive, yeah,” he says. 

That about sums it up. You nod, but you don’t push him any further. 

“Well,” you say, “The ER is pretty disgusting. And loud. And to be forced to wait in front of radiology is probably a scenario they offer as a torture device in one of the seven circles of hell.”

He can’t help himself, “It’s nine, actually.”

“Sorry?”

“Nine circles,” Matt clarifies, his lips twitching in a faint grin. “Dante’s Inferno. A good Catholic boy’s guilty pleasure.”

You let out a genuine laugh this time, and it warms his senses. It’s a rare sound in a place filled with so much pain. He can almost hear the weight from your shoulders hit the floor. The tension in the air seems to ease, if only for a moment. You allow to let yourself go. 

Your grin turns into a smirk. “Catholic, huh?” you retort. 

“Since the day I was born,” he says. “Are you religious?”

That seems to steal your breath away. You have no words. For a full minute, silence settles in between the two of you. It’s almost uncomfortable, and Matt fears he must have crossed a line. He just doesn’t know how to apologize for something he is truly curious about. 

The topic of God and religion seems to hit a nerve when it’s not used in a humorous context. There are many reasons why that could be. He spends every day battling his own religious trauma and the demons that he feels he’s harboring deep inside, but he still holds on tight to his faith. If he doesn’t have an excuse—if he doesn’t have anything to hold onto other than what broken self-respect he has left—where would he be?

You finally clear your throat after what feels like an eternity. “No,” it’s a simple answer. “I don’t believe that there is a God.”

Your mouth stays open. You want to say something else, but your lips close within seconds after the thought has passed by you, and you swallow it. He wonders what he could have learned about you if you had allowed yourself to say what you were truly thinking when the words first left your mouth. You’re holding back, and it is audible. It might even be visible. Your cheeks are running hot. 

Matt nods. He doesn’t question you. Your beliefs are yours. Most of the time, he doesn’t even believe that there is a God himself. 

“It’s hard to keep the faith in this world, especially when you work so hard every day trying to save people’s lives. When you are forced to see what the system does to those who can’t defend themselves over and over again, but you can’t do anything about it. Or when you see what people do to each other. I mean, the cruelty of human beings is unmatched, and it makes you wonder if God is just a sadist, or if maybe he isn’t even real because a gracious God wouldn’t let innocent children die,” you cut yourself off in an instant, and he tilts his head toward you in surprise. 

Your breath shudders. “I… I’ve seen too much bad to believe that there is an all-merciful God,” you say. “So I simply don’t.”

You try to meet his eyes, but all you see is your reflection in the red of his rounded glasses. Your heart breaks a little, he can hear it. Your shoulders slump. You’re defeated.

He isn’t sure how to react to that. How to help. How to be a decent human being. Matt just doesn’t have the answers you need, and it makes him question his own faith for a minute. Not that he has ever not questioned it; his relationship with God is as complicated as it gets.

You catch yourself after a moment of staring into the void of his glasses. “But… that’s my opinion. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended,” Matt says.

You were smiling, and now you’re not anymore. He doesn’t like that. He liked it more when you were more open with him. Your legs have moved back to your chest, your arms clinging to them. You’ve retreated. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. The edge in your voice breaks his heart. 

He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. I get it. Injustice…it’s a parasite. I’ve encountered my fair share of good people who deserved better than what they got. You try and you fail over and over again because the world isn't fair. I’d be the last person to judge you for not sharing my beliefs.” He breaks off in a chuckle. “I'm not that kind of guy.”

Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline. “What is that you do again?” You didn’t ask that question before.

“I’m a lawyer,” he states. “Defense attorney.”

“Wow,” you let out a soft puff of air, “And you chose to go to Metro General instead of jumping on the big money train to the Upper East Side?” 

Although your tone is joking, Matt can tell that there is an ounce of truth in your words.  

He hides his laugh behind a cough. He’s not sure if he’s surprised or if he actually finds that assumption hilarious. Maybe a bit of both.

“Oh, no.” He shakes his head. “I have never even been in the same station as the big money train.”

“Oh?”

“No. We, my partner and I, do pro-bono work. We don't get paid for our services. Well, other than baked goods and overdue bills in the mail, of course.”

You chuckle. “That’s a relief. Not so much for your bank account, but ethically.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry for assuming. That was prejudiced of me,” you say. “I’m not trying to judge you. I’m sorry. Rich or not, it’s none of my business.”

Matt shrugs. “It's okay. Lawyers and doctors are the two professions so many think make millions of Dollars a year, and while that may be the case for a few, a lot of us just… don’t,” he says.

“Amen! If I had a drink, I’d toast to that.”

“Yeah, well, an intoxicated doctor would not fare well in the legal sense.”

“You think that would end my career?”

“I can’t even give you good legal advice other than, don’t.”

Your giggle turns into a laugh. “Thank you for the advice, counselor.”

He joins in. “Anytime.” 

For a moment, only the two of you exist. Matt adjusts his position, but he doesn’t take his bruised ribs into account. His wince is barely audible, yet you notice it in an instant. And when his hair slips, you can see the gash on his forehead. The one he tried to stitch up himself but probably did an awful job at concealing. 

Your eyes narrow in concern. “What happened to you?” your voice barely breeches the sound barrier. 

“Oh, nothing,” he tries to shrug it off. “Just an accident.”

“An accident?”

“I am blind, you know. I tripped, hit my head. It happens.”

“Hm.” Much to his surprise, you don’t press him further. Instead, you gently reach out to brush the sweaty strand of hair from his face that he used to cover up the aftermath of his latest endeavor. 

Now that he thinks about it, his ribs really do hurt. He’s sure nothing is broken, but they are severely bruised. Even he can feel the blood pooling under the skin. 

You bite your lip, not wanting to pry. The urge is obvious to him, but only to him. You’re good at your job. You focus on the task at hand. That is probably why you became a doctor in the first place; to help people, not to pry. 

But Matt Murdock doesn’t need help. 

“It’s fine,” he assures you. 

You nod. “I believe you.”

You don’t. You’re lying. He appreciates the effort though. You try your best at making him feel comfortable and welcome. Asking questions would only drive him away; you wouldn’t be able to satiate your pathological need to help. It’s who you are.

“Whoever patched this up did a terrible job,” you say, “and I don’t want to know who did it because if you tell me it was you, I will lose my mind, so, I choose to believe you for the sake of my own sanity.”

His lips part in a soft laugh. “Yeah, you don't wanna know,” he says.

“Can I fix it?"

He opens his mouth to decline, “You don’t have to, I–”

“Please.” 

There is no arguing with you, it seems.

Your footsteps echo in the empty hallway. One of the drawers in the cart across from the bed slides open at your touch. Matt can hear the distinct crinkle of packaging and the clanking of metal. When you return to his side, your steps are a little heavier. 

“I’m going to clean the wound and then apply a butterfly bandage to help the skin grow back together,” you explain. “The cut isn't that deep, but you must’ve hit your head pretty hard when you fell. I can’t force you to get a head CT, so… If you experience any nausea or neurological deficits in the next few days, you should come back to run some tests. But—and that is not my expert medical opinion because I don’t have the tests to back it up—I think it should be fine to heal on its own.”

“Any other advice, Doc?” he jokes. 

“Well, I can’t give the same good news about your bruised ribs.” You only have to place your hand on his side and his lips come to press tightly together. “I’m guessing third and fourth,” you say. “If one of them is fractured, it makes you run at risk for internal bleeding, but to see the extent of your injuries, we’d have to get an MRI. That is not my call to make. I can’t force you to get your battle scars checked out, I can just advise you to think about it. Really think about it.”

Matt sighs. His laughter has long died. “I know.”

He doesn’t want to repeat himself. He’s fine. He has to pretend that he’s fine because he doesn’t have time for doctors or questions. Neither you nor the law can protect him from the damage that the truth would do. 

You’re disappointed, but you swallow your pride. With delicate precision, you start cleaning the wound on his forehead, the cotton swab dabbing at the dried blood. He winces at the sting of antiseptic, a subtle twitch in response to the pain.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

Matt manages a half-smile. “It’s alright. I’ve had worse.”

That doesn’t make you feel better, but you accept it. You’ve learned to respect your patients’ wishes, even if that means swallowing a lie. 

As you work, your fingers graze over his skin with a careful tenderness. It’s a stark contrast to the harshness of the world he navigates outside—a double-edged sword. If he doesn’t go out there, more people die or get hurt. He would sustain the same injuries over and over again and almost die rather than pretend that evil isn’t lurking right outside his window every night. And there is a bigger storm brewing in the distance, one he isn’t fully prepared for. 

Yet.

You finish cleaning the wound and proceed to carefully apply a fresh bandage. Matt can feel the cool adhesive against his skin. Your touch is soothing, almost comforting, and he allows himself to relax.

“There,” you announce softly. “All patched up.”

Matt lifts his hand to touch the bandage, a habit he developed over the years to reassure himself that someone cared enough to tend to his wounds. “Thank you,” he answers. 

“No biggie.” You shrug with a tiny smile, and that makes him smile, too. It shows him that while you are displeased with his lack of respect for himself and his health, you aren’t mad at him. You just care.

The shrill beeping of your pager tears a headache through his skull.

You curse under your breath. “I’m so sorry,” you say as you skim over the text that has been sent to you. “The, uh—the ER needs me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he quickly responds. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go. Save a life!”

You’re reluctant at first, but then your lips curl into a broader, more genuine smile, and in the heat of the moment, you grab his hand. “It was nice meeting you, Matthew,” you say. “Take care of yourself.” 

Your footsteps retreat and your heartbeat gets fainter as you walk down the hallway. He’s speechless. He doesn’t even remember how to say goodbye. 

“Oh, and do me a favor?” You stop momentarily just to ask him, “Get those ribs checked out?”

His mouth opens and closes like that of a fish on dry land. “Sure,” he says. 

“Thank you,” these are your last words to him before you take off running. 

Both of you know though that once he is out of Metro General and on his way home, he won’t come back. Not for himself, at least. And it is something you have to accept as much as he has to accept the fact that you are long gone, off to save a life in the very four walls that seemed so scary to him all alone only fifteen minutes ago.

Tag List: @shiorimakibawrites @allllium @siampie @auroraslibrary @roseallisonparker @abucketofweird @thatonegamefish @capylore @kniselle @sumo-b98 @peachstarliight @littlehappyperson @danzer8705

[ohdeargodwhy]

Cinema for GAZA Auction now live until 12th April, raising money for MAP (Medical Aid for Palestinians)

Featuring a lot of Doctor Who goodies:

Signed DOCTOR WHO shooting script with amazing cover artwork by Peter Capaldi

Clapperboard from DOCTOR WHO signed by Jenna Coleman + Peter Capaldi

Zoom with Arthur Darvill & Karen Gillan + signed DOCTOR WHO script

Zoom with DOCTOR WHO's Pearl Mackie + signed gift

Plus other auction items from Tilda Swinton, Joseph Quinn, Jonathan Glazer, Rose Matafeo, Louis Theroux, Annie Lennox, Olly Alexander, Gurinder Chadha, Brian Cox, Ramy Youssef, Kiell Smith-Bynoe and many many more!

[ali-houston]

[p4lm5prings]

One thing about me is when I really like a fictional character i will be making a Taylor Swift playlist for them!

And it will be spot on too!

*ahem* listen to them here 😘

[silverfoxstole]

Paul and (most of) his audio companions.

[chxrlie-cox]

Charlie with Kyle Luker and Alex Kingston at FanX Salt Lake, 22 September 2023

📸 via princesskylenyc on ig

[ryan-rigby]

Art vs Artist 2023🎨🖌

My art vs artist 🎨🖌

Repaints, a lot of Taylor Swift Eras and Daredevil!❤️

Prints on my Etsy🧡

[cleowho]

“But that will create a volcano.”

The Dominators - season 06 - 1968

[denimbex1986]

'...1. Voyage of the Damned - 2007

David Tennant's third festive special also featured pop princess Kylie Minogue playing a waitress called Astrid Peth who works aboard the Titanic. However, it isn't the legendary tragic vessel but rather a nuclear-powered interstellar cruise liner from the planet Sto, which is inspired by the original ship.

It is on a collision course for earth and it turns out that the culprit is the former cruise line owner Max Capricorn. He was bitter about being forced out of his own company and plotted the Titanic's collision with Earth to bankrupt the company and frame the board of directors for murder.

Astrid sacrificed herself to save the Doctor and he used the heat from entry into the Earth's atmosphere to restart the ship's engines and prevent the collision. The episode is also noteable for giving us our first glimpse of Bernard Cribbens as Wilfred Mott

With 13.31 million viewers and an 86 AI rating it is a clear winner for the most popular special.

2. The Next Doctor - 2008

The 2008 special The Next Doctor caused huge excitment as fans specualted that, after three years in the role, David Tennant's Doctor might regerneate into a new incarnation. However, the title turned out to be a curveball as the plot saw him encounter a man calling himself "the Doctor" who was played by David Morrissey.

Although initally The Doctor believed the man, who was suffering from amnesia, was e a future incarnation of himself he later realises that the Next Doctor is really a human called Jackson Lake. He was supposed to be the first missing person during the Cyberman invasion that has seen numerous children, pulled from workhouses around the city by Miss Mercy Hartigan (Derbhla Kirwan), are being put to work at an underground facility under Cybermen guard.

The Cybermen converted Hartigan into the controller for the "CyberKing", a giant mechanical Cyberman powered by the energy generated by the children.When she refused the Doctor's offer to leave the planet, he severed her connection to the CyberKing, exposing her to the emotion of what she had done which destroyed# both the Cybermen and Miss Hartigan.

The episode ended on a sweet note with with the Doctor and Jackson heading off to attend Christmas dinner in remembrance of those they have lost.

While not as popular as the number one onthe list it still garnered an impressive 13.10 million viewers and an AI of 86 making it second in the popularity ranking.

3. The End Of Time (Part One) - 2009

This two part special marked the end of David Tennant's era as the Doctor. It also saw the return of fan favourite John Simm as The Master and featured Succession star Brian Cox don heavy prosthetics to play an Ood. The plot saw a cult of women resurrect the Master, but his wife Lucy Saxon sabotaged the ceremony, causing him to be brought back with incredible strength but constant hunger.

Meanwhile the Doctor arrived back on Earth on Christmas Eve and reunited with Wilfred Mott (Bernard Cribbens). He found the Master at wastelands outside London, and learnt that the Master has been suffering from hearing the sound of drums.

The Master is laterplaced in custody of Joshua Naismith (DAvid Harewood) who has recovered a broken alien "Immortality Gate" and wants the Master to fix its programming. The Master activates the Gate, which he has reprogrammed to replace all of humankind's DNA with his own resulting in a planet full of lookalikes.

Elsewhere, the Lord President of the Time Lords (Timothy Dalton) asserted that the Time Lords will return.

The story is left hanging as part two was broadcast on New Years Day ensuring that the Doctor dominated the festive season. While this episode had 12.4 million viewers and an AI of 87 making it number 3 on the list of Christmas specials, it was actually beaten in the ratings part two with 12.27 million viewers and an AI of 89.

8. The Christmas Invasion - 2005

The first Doctor Who special of the rebooted era also marked David Tennant's debut as The Doctor after the departure of Christopher Eccleston. However, he spent most of the episode in his pyjamas in bed recovering from the effects of regeneration.

This meant that most of the focus of the episode was on tried and tested companion character Rose Tyler (Billie Piper). When she and her boyfriend are attacked by Santa robots; the Doctor theorised that energy from his regeneration has lured them here.

Meanwhile Prime Minister Harriet Jones (Penelope Wilton) was threatened by the leader of alien race the Sycorax into giving them half of the Earth's population as slaves. After Rose and her mother and boyfriend drag the Doctor onto the TARDIS, it is detected by the Sycorax and they transport it to their ship.

The pyjama clad Doctor challenges the Sycorax leader to a sword fight for the future of the Earth, which he eventually wins saving the planet.

With the new era of Doctor Who only one season in this garnered 9.84 million viewer and an AI of 84 making it the eighth most popular epsiode.

9. The Runaway Bride - 2006

The 2006 special introduced viewers to future companion Donna Noble played by Catherine Tate. To The Doctor's surprise she materialised in his TARDIS in her wedding dress.

Alhtough he returned her safely to her wedding the adventure didn't end there as the reception was attacked by robots dressed as Santa Claus. The Doctor discovered that they were being controlled remotely from space whch led him to the spider-like Empress of the Racnoss, played by an unrecognisable Sarah Parish, who had been hiding in hibernation at the edge of the universe.

The Doctor took travelled back billions of years wth Donna and discovered that an inert Racnoss ship became the core of the Earth as the planet formed around it. In the present day The Empress was trying to wake her children aboard with huon particles, which it turned out Donna's fianceé had been spiking her with, which is why she materialised on board the TARDIS..

Although The Doctor attempted to offer a peaceful solution the Empress refuseed, and the Doctor wass forced to flood the pit with water from the Thames in order to save the planet. Although he dropped Donna back home this wouldn't be the last we would see of her and she went on to become one of his most popular companions.

With 9.35 million viewers and an AI of 84 it is far from the most popular Doctor Who special but it does mark a pivotal point in the series...'

[jewishbarbies]

“if you’re pro life you deserve to get pregnant/r*ped and be forced to carry the baby to term and not be able to get the life saving medical care you need” is not the super woke and enlightened leftist take y’all think it is and I’m getting sick of hearing it. the whole point of fighting for women’s reproductive care/rights is that NO ONE should have to go through that. it should be a basic human right regardless of what kind of human you are. if you don’t believe that, you’re not pro human rights. I don’t care if you’re angry. if you genuinely believe we should be forcing pro life women to have babies and/or hope they get sexually assaulted and then refuse them medical care, you’re a sadistic fuck that’s doing more harm to women’s rights than helping.

[farfromstrange]

Do No Harm

CHAPTER TWELVE: Oh, Chaos!

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: You have an eventful day at work rekindling with a new acquaintance and dealing with a peculiar trauma case, but the most prominent thing on your mind is dinner with Matt, and you could really use some advice from someone who knows a thing or two about dates to keep you from canceling.

Warnings for this chapter: slight angst, self-hatred/doubt, mentions of past abuse, mentions of injury

Word Count: 5.3k

A/n: I'm sorry this took so long. I took an unexpected hiatus, and I couldn't break out of the writer's block, so this took close to a month to finish. I read this a dozen times, and I fixed what I could. This is rather "boring" compared to what came before and what I've got planned, but there is plot in there that will become important again later down the line. Just so you know what you're getting yourself into in advance. 'Kay, thank you!

Read Chapter 12: Oh, Chaos! here on AO3

Four missed calls, and twenty text messages. The chat is full of one-sided advances. ‘Claire’ is written on top, but her contact resembles an empty void in contrast. 

I don’t know what I did to deserve this radio silence, but I thought you would like to know I asked Matt out again. I like him. We’re having dinner on Friday. Do with that as you will. 

Hope you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere. 

Call me when you can. Please. 

I’m worried about you. 

Love you. 

It has been like this since Matt called you when you least expected it. Whether he was looking for support, professional advice, or just the sound of your voice, you’re not sure, but it warmed your heart to know he thought of you and no one else, and he picked up the phone to call you. 

Before, you tried telling yourself that there isn’t much between you. You tried telling yourself that perhaps, it would never go anywhere and not to be disappointed because from the start, Matt has been too good to be true, but after sharing a glimpse of your past, you feel closer to him, and you don’t want to let him go. He is the first good thing that has come to you in years. 

Claire’s radio silence hurts. You don’t want to admit it, but sending text after text to your best friend and receiving not even a ‘read’ sign both concerns and upsets you. Ever since she took you under her wing when you came to New York, you’ve—sometimes involuntarily—shared your anger with her, your sadness, your pain, and those rare moments of happiness. 

She was the one who told you to go for it, so her behavior remains suspicious. You want to ask her; you want to confront her about everything and get the truth out of her, but unless she answers your contact attempts or shows up to work, there is not much you can do. You tried from the moment you got home to the second leading up to your next shift at the hospital. So far, nothing. A few days ago, you would have called the police and said that this was nothing like Claire, but now, you’re not so sure anymore what to believe, and it is pissing you off when you should be excited.

Things are looking up. You don’t want to look down and ruin this for yourself, knowing there is a chance your thoughts will most likely turn against you again at some point. You have to enjoy it while it lasts. 

Glancing down at your phone, you walk down one of the hallways at Metro General. You shake your head. It’s been hours. Perhaps after you get off work, you will head to where Claire is staying. Just to check on her. The nagging feeling that shit is about to hit the fan won’t leave you, and it seems like the right thing to do, even if just to ask her what her problem is. 

She’s always so quick to tell you what’s good for you. She gives you advice you never even asked for, but you end up appreciating it regardless. She knows what she’s doing, and she is a lot smarter than you are most of the time. You know her as well as you possibly can after two years; Claire is hiding something, and that is unlike her. If she gets herself in danger because of something she feels like she can’t talk to you about, or if she has an opinion afraid to share with you, you need to know because it is important to you. Your mind is disordered and distorted; you are well aware that sometimes, you don’t see things as clearly as you should. Claire’s rationality is a blessing and a curse. You’re dependent on it.

“Hey, Doc,” a familiar voice sounds from the nurse’s station.

You stop in your tracks, looking up from your phone to the man standing across from you. You haven’t seen that face in a while, even though he spends a lot of time here—almost as much as he does at work. You doubt he ever goes home to sleep. 

Your face lights up, and you stuff your phone back into the pocket of your coat. “Ben!” you exclaim, your lips curving into a smile. 

“Long time no see,” he says in an attempt to match your delighted reaction.

You hate to admit it, but Ben Urich looks worse for wear. Dark circles under his eyes match the deepened wrinkles of exhaustion, and his lips are cracked in more places than one. His shirt shows the slightest of coffee stains he tries to cover with his visitor badge. You doubt he has had the time to do his laundry in a long time. And there is that expression of agony he usually knows how to hide, but the walls he once built around himself are starting to crumble. 

The sympathy you have for this man cannot be put into words—because your feelings are unpleasant most of the time, too, and unless you have been in an impossible situation, all you can have is empathy. You, however, are not a stranger to despair, and the people around you all seem to be carrying too much of it, too. 

You clear your throat, putting the file in your hand aside to shake his. “How have you been?” you dare to ask. 

He shrugs. “Could be better, but… I’m alive. Healthy,” he says. It’s a modified standard answer you do not buy for even a second. 

Your eyes soften, but you try to keep the mood light. God knows what he has been through since the last time you saw him on this very floor. “Yeah? That’s good. The Bulletin still giving you a hard time about the things you want to write?” You chuckle. 

“Ah, you know how it is.” Ben leans against the counter. “Readers these days are apparently more interested in celebrity scandals and gentrification than true crime.”

The pen scratches against the chart you have to sign. “Well, just know that you will always have a loyal fan of your true crime section in me, and I would tell that to Eric’s face if you ever need me to.” You offer him a smile of pure honesty, and his eyes actually light up this time. 

He chuckles. “Can I quote you on that?”

“That depends. Am I getting paid?”

“I’m afraid the only form of payment I have is cheap office coffee.”

“You’re in luck then,” you say, “I am a sucker for cheap office coffee because it’s still better than cheap hospital coffee.”

His face contorts. “Yeah, I’m not going to argue with you on that,” he says. 

Again, you chuckle. The question rests on the tip of your tongue, but only when the silence stretches out painfully long enough to prompt a drop of sweat to run down his temple, you ask, “How’s your wife?” No pain or pity in your voice—you know he doesn’t need it. 

Ben swallows in response, scratching his fingers through his hair. “Uh, hanging in there. They told me she’s had a good day today. Lucid,” he tells you. 

“That sounds like progress. You know, with her condition, every good day is a success.”

“Yeah, yeah, I, uh… I agree. But… she’s not the only reason I’m here. Shelly called me here today to, uh, discuss my wife’s future at this hospital…”

The muscles in your shoulders tense and stiffen. You slowly lift your head. “Oh,” is all you can muster up to say. You know where this is going.

“Yeah,” he says. “I tried convincing her to keep her here a little while longer. But apparently, you guys can’t accommodate her much longer, and she wants me to look into hospice or some other form of long-term care.”

“I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault.”

But what else are you supposed to say? You clear your throat. “I, uh… Shelly’s under a lot of pressure, you know? We’re having funding issues in every department, and she is just trying to make due, but… I know your wife’s been here for a very long time, and she’s dependent on the care. Alzheimer’s can be incredibly cruel, and I’m sure hospice is a lot more expensive than what your insurance covers if she stays here, so it isn’t fair. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” says Ben. 

“Can I help in any way?” you ask. 

“Well, unless you can win the lottery or find a cure for Alzheimer’s in the next seven days, I’m afraid not.”

“Believe me, people are trying, but—”

“I know,” he cuts you off. “I still appreciate it. You’re one of the few doctors here who still care about the people.”

You shake your head, saying, “It’s not that easy. The system is rigged against us. We’re all aware of it, but some of us just… fall off the wagon because they think the only way through is to become what we hate the most. Selfish, egotistical money-makers always chasing recognition rather than caring about the patients we’re supposed to serve,” you explain. “These new fancy medical centers only those with millions in their bank accounts can afford are where all the funding goes, and those who cater to the underprivileged and uninsured—like us—have to suffer the consequences because we don’t chase after money. I would know; I did my residency at one of those hospitals, and I hated how some of these people treated their patients, so I always tried to use the resources we’ve got to help people, even those who couldn’t afford it. Of course, not all of my fellow residents stayed on that path with me. The more high-risk surgeries, the better the payout, even when unnecessary. Upcoding and needless tests were the standards we were held to. I’ve always hated that. Public hospitals are at the bottom of the food chain, and the patients end up pulling the short straw, but most doctors don’t start with the mindset that it’s just something we have to accept. That lethargy comes with time. And the system.”

“Kind of reminds me of that kook in the black mask,” Ben muses. “With his disbelief in the system and his…his twisted sense of justice.”

You scoff. “Well…”

Your mind flashes back to the other night in that alleyway. The way he interfered when he heard you in trouble. The cockiness he seemed to exceed, but it quickly vanished when he realized you may have risked your life to save someone else’s, but you were not going to leave another person injured. You don’t have a lot of trust in the justice system, but that man seemed… different; like the only way he could believe in justice is when he does something against the persistent injustice that so many turn a blind eye to. 

But it’s not just Hell’s Kitchen, which the Man In Black seems to gracefully ignore. He does what he needs to where he thinks he has to, but it is not just the system in his beloved city that is wired against the people it is supposed to protect and serve. It’s not just the justice system or society overall, it’s the government, too. And you truly believe he knows that, too, he simply does not have the manpower to fight all battles at once. No one has. 

Ben eyes you curiously, up and down. “What, you don’t agree?” he asks. 

You sigh. “I don’t think he has a twisted sense of justice, no.”

“Why? You met him?”

Saying yes would make you an accessory to his crimes. “I’ve heard the same things you have, Ben, and I think he really is trying to change something,” you answer instead. 

You find a sudden determination in his eyes as he leans closer. “You treat his victims, right? You’ve seen what he can do with his bare hands. Taking out entire syndicates that have been bothering Hell’s Kitchen for decades, going up against bad seeds and corporations, and he never backs down,” he says. 

“If you’re trying to say it’s a bad thing…” You trail off. 

“I think it’s a grey area. A fine line.”

“Well, as fine as that line may be, I don’t feel as much empathy for the people he puts in here because I’ve seen what they can do just a few blocks from here,” you state and close the chart in front of you on the counter. “I had to watch lives and families get destroyed. The ones responsible for serving justice either didn’t have the evidence, or they were too late, or the only witnesses died on my table, or—and that happens quite frequently, too—they just didn’t care,” you say. “The times I watched them make arrests, the legal system ended up failing the victims anyway. Now, I’m not saying I condone violence, but this city needs help. Depending on the area, police sometimes don’t even bother to check, and that pisses me off because a lot of the time, tragedies could have been prevented if first responders just got there on time. Or if the perpetrators involved in a crime suffered the consequences for their actions instead of bailing out the same day on a domestic violence charge. I know that the police can't be everywhere at once, but… A lot of people feel safer with this guy out there because they know he tries.”

Ben desperately scribbles along on a small notepad you’re not sure where he got it from. He’s not even wearing a coat. 

“It’s like David and Goliath,” you tell him, too animated to pay closer attention to your surroundings. “It’s a contest wherein a smaller, weaker opponent faces a much bigger and stronger adversary. I just… I don’t know. In this city, there are a lot of metaphorically weak individuals who don’t have the means to fight back against the big guy. Like I said, a system rigged against its people does not help the people live a safe and happy life in a city that makes them feel like all their advances are futile.”

“That’s excellent,” he murmurs.

You glimpse down at his hand, frowning. “It’s just my opinion.”

“There’s nothing ‘just’ about it. I know a lot of people feel the way you do, and yes, that’s fucked up. But that’s why we need people like you to speak up. People with more influence than the little guy. People who serve the people.”

“Ben,” you try to get a word in.

“Hear me out,” he says. “If I can get Eric to sign off on it, I want to write a think piece for the public. About the man in the mask. About Hell’s Kitchen and New York, and the things no one likes to talk about. And I’d like to get you on the record.”

“With all due respect—and I do love the concept—I don’t think interviewing me would be such a good idea.”

“Why not?”

Your pulse has inevitably gotten higher. Because if my ex finds out where I am, he’ll kill me. The thought screams like a banshee, echoing like the trajectory of a bouncing basketball. It takes you a moment to realize that the thudding is your heart. Dull, aching, and infused with a panic as old as time. 

You squeeze the pen in your fist, feeling the plastic crack under the weight. “I can’t have my name or face on the record,” you confess. “It’s a, uh… protection thing.”

The most human thing to ask would be, ‘Protection from what?’ You don’t have to read minds to know that those are the words forming on Ben’s lips the second you offer him an explanation that is not quite the truth. It couldn’t be further from it, but your truth is a tank and tanks can take down everything in their path without suffering as much as a scratch. 

You take the stage before he can ask—before you can ride yourself further into this pile of dirt and lies. “I treat people for a living, and my opinions out there… I need to protect myself if someone ever wants to file a lawsuit against me for prejudicial behavior because they could easily use an interview I gave as evidence,” you say. “I could lose my license.” Your license, and your life. 

He releases a strangled breath. “Yeah, no. Of course,” Ben says. “I knew that. But I could always refer to my source as anonymous. Most of the time, people don’t care about who said what anyway. They just want something to talk about.”

You want to scream. The alarm is blaring loud enough for the nerves in your body to hear it. The rage is so hard to swallow. Not at him though. It isn’t Ben’s fault that even now, you have to live your life as if it was never yours to begin with.

“But,” he adds upon seeing the look on your face, like a deer in bright headlights, “unless a certain Man in Black decides to leave another stranded criminal on my doorstep, Eric will never sign off on it. I’m sorry,” the exasperation in his voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard. “I didn’t mean to jump this at you. I know you have more…important things to do than worry about an old journalist who knows damn well his best days are behind him.” 

The shake of your head follows in an instant. His confidence lies drowned in the invisible puddle at your feet. “You don’t always have to go with the flow of time,” you tell him. “If you want to write something, you should. People’s tastes change, but there will always be someone out there who wants to read what you have to say.”

Ben smiles at you. “Does that mean you’ll think about my offer?” he asks.

You return the gesture. “When I’ve done my important things, maybe I will.”

And chances are, you will think about it. You will think about it, and then you will cry over a bottle of wine and wish you were never born or that, once again, he killed you when he had the chance. You will wish that you didn’t run, and you will curse John and your entire existence to hell and back because without him, you wouldn’t have to guard your heart like a maximum-security prison, and you wouldn’t have to hide who you are like a secret from Pandora’s box. In the end, though, you know you will have to decide if he doesn’t forget what he offered you—and knowing Ben Urich, when he is allowed to write about what he wants, he won’t forget the sources he tried to recruit along the way. 

You look up suddenly when the sirens start blaring above your head. 

Attention all staff, Code Red, Emergency Department. Code Red, Emergency Department. Trauma team to the Emergency Department immediately.

“That sounds bad,” Ben comments. 

You turn back to him, but before you can open your mouth and excuse yourself from the conversation (and your internal self-hatred party), one of the nurses behind the counter picks up the phone with a knowing nod. A second passes and all color fades from her skin before her features contort. “I’m sorry, what?!” she damn-near screeches.

You frown back at her. “Hey, Evie,” — you snap your fingers — “What’s going on?”

She moves the speaker away from her lips. “Um,” she stammers. “Have you ever seen Texas Chainsaw Massacre?”

“Oh, my God.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s 11 am!” you say, your eyes darting between her and the wall as if that would change anything.

Ben cuts in, “That doesn’t mean much in a city that never sleeps,” he says. “People are always crazy ‘round here.”

You scoff. “Apparently! I’m so sorry, but I’ve gotta–”

“Yeah, no. I know.” He nods, his eyes softening in an instant. “Go!”

With a grateful nod, you leave your work on the counter and head into a sprint down the hall. 

A life-saving surgery can take up to several hours. There really is no margin for error, so you tune out the noise of the world outside and focus on the chaos you have to control. You focus on what you know and what you have learned because if you don’t, the person you are cutting into with a scalpel could die at your very touch. For those few critical hours, you are nothing but a doctor, but the world doesn’t stop or disappear in real life when you cease to exist; when you come back after those few hours, the world is still falling apart, and you still have to go back home and face the reality you are forced to live in. But how can you think that when people are fighting for their lives every day before your eyes; when you can try as hard as you want to help them, but you fail more often than you do not? Mental scars often out-rule the physical scars of a trauma patient, and whenever you tell them it gets better, you feel like you are lying to them. Because it never gets better, it feels like.

People are dying and falling apart, and so are you, and it hurts that nothing ever seems to change, not even when you try to tell yourself that people are dependent on you and that your world can’t stop again because this is your job; you signed up for this. But you didn’t sign up for this kind of life. You fell in with the wrong person, craving a love like in the fairytales you used to read as a little girl. You missed the feeling of being loved because the people who were supposed to love you died and fell apart, and you were left fantasizing. It’s a downright mess in your head and everywhere around you, and you are continuously stumbling over the broken glass on your floor, falling into the shards and cutting yourself over and over again until you’re bleeding out but never fully dead. 

You spend the next six hours in the operating room, forgetting about Matt and the implications of your dinner. The one you asked him out to. You forget about Ben and his offer, and you think finally, finally, you can breathe. Human anatomy isn’t quite as complicated as this. The one thing you have been worrying most about, the person who has occupied your every waking thought for days now, fades into the shadows for a little while, but then you’re threading the needle through the skin of the man whose life you have saved, and your second to breathe turns into a riot.

Ben’s words return to your conscience; the masked individual he seems most fascinated with moves to the forefront of your fragile mind. He is all over you again, and it sends a thrill down your spine that positively terrifies you; it terrifies you that it doesn’t terrify you. He shouldn’t matter, and you shouldn’t lose another thought to him, but Ben Urich knows how to cast out a net to catch even the most unlikely adversary. 

You redial the last number on your phone. Standing in the emergency room that has grown quiet for the afternoon, you feel the weight of the world sinking back in. The clock keeps ticking closer to the end of your shift and inevitably, dinner. Forgetting is a blessing until you realize that thinking about it would have prepared you more, and now you barely have time. 

You want to cancel. You should cancel. Claire has not been picking up, and you’re worried about her. But she’s an adult, isn’t she? She pushed you into doing this, and then she bailed. A good friend would at least give you a reason for her change of mind. She hasn’t said a word because she refuses to answer, and it’s starting to leave a bitter taste in your mouth. 

“This is Claire. Leave a message,” her voicemail greets you. 

You sigh. “Hey, I don’t know why you refuse to pick up my calls, but I could use your help. I’m, uh, freaking out about this stupid dinner that wouldn’t be happening if it wasn’t for what you said, so the least you could do is call me back and help me pick a dress, maybe talk me off the ledge,” you say. Your voice cracks. “Please, Claire, call me back.” 

The silence is defeating. You put your phone down, staring at the paperwork before you. You have a lot more of that in your office, but you can’t be bothered to be entirely alone right now. Not when you are fighting a war with yourself inside your head. The one soldier you thought you could count on has retreated from the frontlines. 

You look up when your peripheral vision picks up on movement. “Trouble?” one of the nurses asks, motioning to your face.

“Depends on the definition,” you say.

“Hit me with it. Maybe I can help.”

You couldn’t shut up even if you wanted to. “Well… Do you know anything about proper date attire?” 

She grins, dropping whatever she was holding before to turn her undivided attention to you. “A date?” she asks. “Well, well, Doc. Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Oh, just… a guy I met. A good guy.” You smile sadly at the thought of those beautiful brown eyes, and the green forest that he hides in his irises whenever the light hits his beautiful face just right. The wrinkles, the dimples, and the faint freckles on his nose, too. He is so beautiful. 

She leans forward on her elbows on the counter of the nurse’s station. “The good guy who left your number here the other day?” 

You raise your eyebrows, flabbergasted. “Wh—” The blood rushes to your face, and you suddenly feel very warm as you gape at her. “Does everyone here know about that?” you ask, your voice bothered on a high-pitched siren of embarrassment. 

The nurse only smirks. “He is very handsome,” she states. “It’s hard to forget a face like that. And he’s come here twice. One of those times he sat by your bedside. Now, I don’t know about you, but I would marry a guy like that in a heartbeat. Bodies in the basement included.”

You hope he doesn’t have bodies in his basement. What if he does though? What if he is just another bad choice waiting to be made? What then? You can’t imagine it, and the things you’re feeling… you have only felt them in your mind because nothing you had was ever real, but you love feeling them now more than you thought possible. It’s the fact that you love that treacherous feeling so much that you feel like you’re not thinking clearly enough to make rational decisions. But you don’t want to make rational decisions, you’ve realized. Life shouldn’t be about that. You can’t turn the voice in your head off and make it stop screaming at you, but you know how to feel. If you only knew how to channel that without falling apart at the hands of your self-doubts though. If only you knew. 

You run a wary hand over your face. “Okay,” you murmur, closing your chart so you can look at your colleague. “Claire isn’t answering her phone and this date… it’s freaking me out. She said I had to get back out there, but she bailed on me,” you tell her. “I don’t know what to wear or how to behave because the place we’re going to is… fancy? And I don’t even know how to pay for it. I… I don’t know if I should go because the last time I was on a date… let’s just say it didn’t end well. So, if you could just tell me that this is a bad idea and I should take on a second shift instead so I won’t feel bad about lying to him, I would be forever in your debt.”

She shakes her head, not having missed a second of your rambling. “Oh, hell no!” she exclaims. 

You match her incredulity, propping your hands up on your hips. “Excuse me?” you ask.

Her head stops, and the way she stands there reminds you of your English teacher from high school. Tall, brunette, and sassy. “You are not bailing on that date like Claire bailed on you just because you’re experiencing anxiety,” the nurse tells you. She’s insistent. You doubt you will get a word in that isn’t an utterance of agreement. 

“You don’t understand,” you try to convince her, or are you trying to convince yourself? “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Did you miss the part where I said my last date ended in disaster?”

“So what? I’ve had a lot of disastrous dates.”

“That’s not…ugh!” It is your turn to shake your head, looking at the sterile wall as though it were a screen. 

A life built on a lie is not much of a life at all. You have as good a reason as anyone to bail on this date, and it’s not just a disastrous date. You didn’t pick the wrong guy off of Hinge and fall in love with him. What happened to you was different on a level you can’t easily describe, but it also shouldn’t define you; she’s right. Your insecurities are going to be the death of you one day.

“Let me ask you this,” she says. “Do you like him? Or do you just think he’s a really good guy because he was nice to you?”

Your jaw slacks. The Audacity. “I… I think he’s a great guy. Nice. Forthcoming. That’s all,” you answer. It’s not a lie, but it is not the full truth she wanted to hear.

“Uh-huh. I may not be a human polygraph, but I can smell a lie from miles away like a bloodhound. And you, Doctor, are lying and therefore interfering with your treatment.”

“I’m not a patient.”

“Are you though?”

You sigh. You should not have confided in her, but also, perhaps it was the best choice you could have made. 

“I like him,” you confess upon looking into her eyes. “Okay? I like him. He’s not just a good guy. He’s… different, and that’s why I like him.”

She stands up straighter, a newfound energy filling her veins. “That’s more like it. Now, let’s forget the whole ‘canceling and using work as an excuse’ thing. What’s the vibe?” she asks.

The change of subject throws you off for a second. You’re walking on eggshells, fragile train tracks you could fall off and electrocute yourself with if you only take one wrong step. But that doesn’t mean you can’t take risks. 

“Fancy-ish,” you answer. You don’t have any strength left to fight. “I don’t know. It’s dinner.”

“Dinner’s romantic. Put on a silk or velvet dress because those are the fabrics with less risk of becoming a sensory nightmare, possibly some jewelry, but you don’t need much more than that. He’ll fall in love with your personality first. The rest is just… for your confidence and his imagination.”

She looks so proud of herself. You can’t deny that it’s good advice. It’s not the sound of your voice filling a voicemail to the brim or a solely blue chat history; it’s something you can work with. 

You nod slowly. “If I didn’t have mountains of paperwork waiting for me, I would kiss you,” you say.

With a chuckle, she retorts, “Save that for your date.”

“I’m not kissing him.” You grab your pile of work. “It’s just dinner. I don’t even want to kiss him.”

On your way to the elevators, you catch a glimpse of her smirk. She’s not buying it. You don’t want her to. You don’t even trust yourself to tell the truth.

“I don’t,” you say, loud enough for her to hear but mostly to yourself. “I don’t want to kiss him,” you repeat because you don’t.

You don’t want to kiss Matt Murdock.

Except that you do, and you would do anything to make that happen—if your world wasn’t so unfair to begin with. 

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[thornbushrose]

I just watched Eat Locals. It said it was a horror movie, but that was hilarious. The little old lady petting the machine gun. "I have one at home." Like it's a yorkie! Lolololol. Definitely my favorite bunch of vampires ever.

And the scene where Henry took the hostages' hoods off just to shush them almost killed me. Those lips!