prompt: Due to unforeseen hijinks, (Y/n) recalls a particularly eventful night working as a Heroics nurse

warning: mild language, a very horned up (Y/n), sexual themes, descriptions of wounds and blood

word count: 2314

pronouns: gender-neutral

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second-person point of view. . .

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Four years. It took four agonizing and brutal years to sit where you sat. Hours upon hours of painstaking lectures, countless all-night study sessions, and exams that brought you to tears nearly pushed you past the breaking point. Nursing school has a funny way of crushing the souls of those who are not truly dedicated to the craft. Fortunately, you survived the grueling process. All for what? To sit and listen to this conversation--

"I treated a burn on Blinding Fast's thigh, they're very nice," one of your co-workers said.

"Thighs? Really? I once had to fish a bullet out of Miracle Guy's chest--the best night of my life," another chimed in giddily.

They went into detail, gushing about the men's muscle definition and pain tolerance. They alluded to fantasies about putting their patient's prowess and abilities to... good use. Then, they looked to you. Enthusiasm sparkled in their eyes at the stories. Toothy smiles adorned their faces, like predators realizing they had cornered their prey. 

"Your turn, (Y/n)," your co-worker tapped you on the shoulder. "Hottest patient, let's hear it."

You let out a loud laugh. You knew better than to gossip, especially with so few employees. The dedicated hospital wing of the Heroics headquarters was smaller than the average facility, and staffed with fewer professionals, but efficient nonetheless. Word spreads like wildfire in such close proximity, particularly when there has not been a world-ending crisis in the last workweek. You would not add fuel to their fire and get burnt to ash as a result.

"Maybe I'm just old," you prefaced warily, "but I tend to focus on my job when someone's bleeding on the operating table."

Your response was met with an uproar of protests along the lines of boo. They insisted you must have had one story to tell, but you kept your mouth shut. Your co-workers were lovely but loose-lipped. You were being truthful for the most part. In all the years of your professional career, there had only been one instance of an... intrusive thought. You were too cautious--too afraid--to risk the account reaching the ears of the man it was regarding.

As you walked down the hall and away from your prying co-workers, your thoughts struggled to avoid a recollection of that night. You tried to push them away, knowing damn well it was wrong to dwell on. Nevertheless, your best efforts were not enough. You could not help but replay the images in your mind's eye, those horribly delicious images...

He was brought in late and you were working the graveyard shift. It was the only night you had ever been on the overnight stay. Part of you wondered if it was fate, but to fully believe that would feel ridiculous. You were half-asleep when he was pushed through the swinging doors on a stretcher, the loud clamoring, however, swiftly woke you up.

You leaped into action without a second thought. You rallied your spirit and gathered the equipment necessary as his mission teammate recalled to you what had happened. He was wheeled into a room and carefully moved onto a clean operating table. The Heroic who brought him in removed the jet-black tactical vest your newest patient wore. The Heroic then dismissed himself with the vest in hand. With a pair of medical scissors, you immediately cut open the fabric of his tight shirt.

Your attention was focused on his abdomen, a few centimeters below his ribcage. The cut was narrow but deep, deep enough to warrant stitches. It was caused by a sharp blade that had cut through his vest, one wielded by an experienced adversary. It was too clean to be an accident or collateral damage.

You hurried to clean the wound before numbing the area surrounding the gash. Due to how deep the cut was, you picked out surgical thread that would dissolve, so you would not need to remove the stitches later. You got to work without sparing the patient himself much thought. You only looked up to identify the hero when he wince the moment your needle pierced his skin. Your eyes flickered up to see his face. 

That had been the moment your focus instantly derailed.

"That bad, huh?" He chuckled bitterly.

He wore a smile on his face; a smile made of full lips and slightly crooked teeth of an ivory color. It was a boyish smile that hadn't a care in the world, the kind of smile that rendered even the most sullen or serious individuals a swooning mess.

His deep-set brown eyes sparkled with amusement as he looked down at you. He held your gaze, awaiting your response. Your mouth suddenly went dry, unable to find the words to speak. You knew you had to say something, but you wondered what.

"A bit, yeah," you nervously laughed.

You turned your attention back to the task at hand. You continued stitching his laceration, sparing him glimpses when the opportunities arose. His pronounced jawline was dusted with chocolate facial hair that suited him quite nicely. That jaw locked and tensed when the needle and thread tugged at his skin. Even though it was numbed, the pulling and pushing were immensely uncomfortable.

He held his upper body up by resting his weight on his forearms and elbows. He allowed his head to fall back and rest against the mediocre cousin of the operating table. His curly brunet hair created a halo around his head and his eyes drifted closed. That image had always been particularly devastating. 

His broad and golden-hued shoulders slumped, head lulled back, eyes gently squeezed shut, jaw locked, and he breathed deeply with his lips parted. His collarbones become highly prominent at such an angle and the muscles in his biceps flexed every time he clenched his fist in discomfort. That display felt better placed in the bedroom than in a hospital.

Your hands worked absent of your mind. Stitching a wound had become such an instinct over the years, you did not need to tell your ligaments to move. They worked on muscle memory alone. You tore your eyes away from his handsome face and placed your vision on the source of his pain. But there too distractions had become unavoidable.

His skin looked so soft, except for the patches that already carried scars. If it were not for the medical gloves that covered your nimble hands, you would have been able to feel him. You guiltily relished in what little warmth of his body you could feel through the material. You tied off the last stitch twice and abruptly stood up.

You placed the used utensils onto a cart to be cleaned later. The bloody gloves over your hands came off and fell to the bottom of a trash can in the corner of the operating room. With the proper bandages in hand, you returned to his side. 

From such a perspective, you could observe your handiwork from afar. Excellent stitching, as expected, but repairs were never a pretty sight. But you had begun to rethink that assessment. Even wounded, stitched, and bruised he looked like a marble statue sculpted by Michelangelo himself.

"Can you, uh... " you struggled to formulate your thoughts, "can you sit up a little more?"

"Course," he mumbled.

With the space required, you wrapped the bandages around his torso carefully. Your fingertips grazed his honey skin. Your heart pounded harder than it ought. Your eyes tracked your hands' movements. Caught in your eyesight, as a result, was the rest of his torso. Meticulously defined muscles lined his body, particularly his stomach.

It was then you had noticed perhaps the delightfully worst image of all: two sharp and distinct lines that started just above his hip bones and descended past the low-hanging belt of his trousers. Similarly, a small patch of dark hair trailed down his lower stomach and into the same confinements.

Your hands began to tremble as they finished the last layer of bandages. Being so close allowed you to partake in a sin you felt incredibly remorseful over. Uninvited, the faint scent of his cologne; notes of saffron and black currant that made you weak.

You stepped back suddenly. In truth, you had not known what spirit of lust had possessed you to gawk and to make such unprofessional observations. You were undeniably attracted to him, but it was wrong to dwell on it. Every fiber of your being was wracked with guilt over a vice he was oblivious to. Curiosity got the better of you and you had wondered: if he had known, how would he have reacted? Would he have awkwardly shrugged it off? Been offended at your blatant objectification? Or would he have taken you right on the operating table?

Your skin was on fire and every inch of you burned. It was a kind of desire you were foreign to, but the kind you seldom ever acted upon. The kind of desire that would keep you up at night. The kind of desire that, if you managed to fall asleep, would plague your dreams with vivid fantasies. He had lit something inside you by simply existing. How pathetic, you thought.

"You're good to go," you choked out.

With a clear of your throat, you regained what was left of your dignity. "The stitches won't need to be removed and the cut should heal on its own. Replace the bandages every day and if you notice anything weird, please let me know."

"Thank you," he said politely a small smile creeping on his face. "What's your name?"

"(Y/n) (L/n)," you told him. "I don't think I've ever operated on you, uh, directly."

"I'm Marcus," he introduced himself, though it was information you already held.

"I know," you chuckled nervously. "I think just about everyone knows. A-And we're kept pretty up to date on all The Heroics' medical records, so we'd--we'd know your names too."

"That isn't a little much?" He wondered curiously.

"Well, if you're bleeding out we don't want to lose time by checking files for a blood type," you explained while attempting to remain as casual as possible.

"Noted," he smiled and your heart skipped a beat. "(Y/n), can I, uh... can I have a shirt?"

"Oh! Yeah!" You quickly hopped to get what he requested. "Yeah! Absolutely."

That was the first and last time you got the chance to operate on Marcus. Maybe it was for the best, you were not sure if you could handle a second round of what occurred that night. It felt like it had happened so long along, yet you could still picture every detail of him. It was shameful.

A sigh passed through your lips as you walked the mostly empty halls of the hospital wing. You had no direction or end destination, simply the goal of stumbling upon something to keep you from the thoughts that haunted the most susceptible parts of you. Just as your mind began to wander into chaste fields of reflection, footsteps echoed down the otherwise quiet hallway.

"(Y/n), right?" A voice beside you ripped you from your inner monologue.

You turned to your left to see who had suddenly joined you. The old adage rang in your skull: speak of the devil and he shall appear. Only, it was the opposite of the devil--Marcus was an angel. Even under the fluorescent lights, he looked perfect. A pair of glasses were supported by his hooked nose and he wore a tie as he often did.

"Yeah! Yeah, that's me," you could not help the smile that made its way onto your face.

"I knew I recognized you," he said mostly to himself before his attention was focused on you and you alone. "I hate to bother you, but I wanted to ask you something."

Every fiber of your being that was hypnotized by the daydreams you entertained jumped to life. That phrase triggered some instinctual hope in you. Was he about to ask you on a date? That's stupid, you scolded yourself, it's embarrassing that's your first thought.

"Of course, what do you need?" You asked, preparing yourself to answer a no doubt medical question.

"My daughter broke her wrist about a year ago," he began, much to your disappointment. "She's been out of a cast for almost six months. She's been complaining about it hurting recently and a weird feeling when she bends it certain ways. Is that--Is that anything to be concerned about?"

"I don't think so," you smile sympathetically. "Wearing a brace might help, but some discomfort is pretty standard when she hasn't really used the joint for a while."

"Okay, thank you," he nodded his head. "I figured, but I just wanted to be sure."

"You're just bein' a good a dad," you shrugged your shoulders, trying to play cool.

Marcus chuckled, shrugging as well.

"I am actively trying," he remarked with a grin. "As a single parent, it all kinda falls on you."

"I'd imagine," you laughed lightheartedly. "If her wrist starts to get inflamed or swell, that would be something to get checked out. Otherwise, I think it'll be fine."

"Thank you again," he said sincerely. "Have a good night, (Y/n)."

"You too, Marcus."

You watched him leave, casually crossing the rest of the hall until he dipped out of sight. It was sweet that he came all the way to the hospital wing to ask about his little girl's injury. Did he not have a family doctor he could call? Better yet, he could have just looked it up on the internet. The more you contemplated it, the less it made sense.

Surely, he would have run into one of the other staff members before he found you. Surely, the doctor who removed his daughter's cast would have told him some discomfort would be normal. And why did he... he oh-so-casually mentioned that he was a single parent.

You stood in shock. Did he just want a reason to talk to you? There was always the possibility that you were dramatically overanalyzing and only seeing what you wanted to see. But your gut was insisting otherwise. Maybe it was not too late to catch up to him before he left.