parker didn’t get you.

well, she did. you were a stereotypical paediatric resident. all smiles, pale yellow scrubs and hair always tidy. you had a pink stethoscope and you always had stickers on you for any children you treated in the er.

parker didn’t dislike it, necessarily. it confused her, sure. it confused her how positive you could be, how nothing seemed to phase you. but she didn’t dislike it. if anything, she wished she could be like that — not affected by the things she sees.

she can’t imagine it’s easy to work with children, especially sick children, but every time parker sees you, that smile is never gone. and the worse part? she can tell it’s real. she knows that the smile is sincere, not something you put on for show.

you’re all curves and blonde hair, and the children you treat love you. you’re soft spoken and you stay calm in a crisis.

but today is a tragedy — pittfest. there’s bodies everywhere and you’re darting around, trying to deal with all the teenagers. and it’s not like you’re the only pediatric resident, but you’re certainly the resident doctor that the ER doctors trust the most.

parker waves you over. you run over. she goes through it with you: sixteen year old girl, gunshot wound to leg, and dislocated hip. she asks you to help her with a relocation, and that anaesthetics are low on supplies. the girl is unconscious.

you don’t think. “there’s no time. she won’t feel it.” you say quickly, climbing onto the gurney.

parker doesn’t think she’s ever heard you so firm, or ever seen you so disheveled, but she likes it.

she likes it a lot.

she doesn’t even have time to react as you do a captain morgan hip relocation. parker’s jaw drops slightly, and she stares at you as you jump down off the gurney. “never considered emergency medicine?” parker breaths out, teasing softly.

you just push your blonde hair back, breathing heavily. “i think i’ll stick to the kids.” you reply, before running off the other end of the ER.

parker doesn’t think you’ve ever looked this good.