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Dr. Patel is just shy of five foot, but her presence makes her seem much bigger. While Dr. Lewis is a brilliant jackass, Dr. Patel is brilliant but compassionate. She’s also very firm and charismatic, which is what got her the position as the Medical Director over Emergency Med. Somehow, she’s way more frightening than Lewis, and Stiles does his best to avoid any private meetings with her because it’s almost like getting scolded by his dad. Unfortunately, she’s currently waiting on him upstairs.
It’s been a really busy night in Emergency. There was yet another face-off between some villain and whichever superhero battled them, which resulted in two dozen people being brought in for everything from scrapes to broken limbs to one unfortunate guy who was impaled on rebar. Stiles doesn’t listen to the gossip about the supers because he doesn’t really care.
Batman is fun because it’s fictional, and there aren’t real people being hurt in the name of good versus evil or whatever crap the latest heroes claim is their destiny. He saw too many cases cross his dad’s desk that involved some suped up wannabe hero, and he heard too many speeches from his dad about borderline vigilantes with superpowers to give a shit. Besides, his area is the supernatural, which is still actually kept a secret from the world.
There’s blood on his scrub pants that’s already dried by the time he leaves the floor to head to Admin. Patel demanded that he meet with her, which has his nerves more frayed than he cares to admit, and he’s just worked an eighteen hour shift because of the influx of civilians affected by Villian Whoever deciding to blow up a building.
Stiles looks at his reflection in the mirrors of the elevator, making a face because his scruffy unshaven face is giving dirtbag drug dealer instead of bearded hunk, and his hair’s grown long enough that it’s hitting the collar of his lab coat. Foolishly, he thought that growing a beard might stop people from questioning his ability to be a doctor and carding him when he wants to grab a beer with his takeout. As it is, he looks like a delinquent trying to avoid being carded.
The elevator arrives to the fourth floor, and he steps out just as another person is stepping on. “Sorry,” he says, moving to avoid bumping into the woman.
“My fault,” she says with a faint accent. She smiles at him and looks him over in a checking him out kind of way. “Doctor.”
“It’s fine,” he says, flashing a smile as he returns the look she’s given him. He notices that Dr. Wash joins her, which he stores away as interesting. Wash says something to her that makes her frown at him, which is the last thing Stiles sees before the elevator doors close.
As he walks down the hall to Patel’s office, he can’t help but wonder what the woman was doing in Admin at the hospital. He recognized her from last week when he’d been having breakfast and an attractive stranger had disrupted his morning. If Bucky is actually telling the truth, that woman is Hydra, and she’s meeting with Dr. Wash.
Too soon, he arrives at Patel’s door, knocking twice and compartmentalizing the potential Hydra woman for now. The door opens and Dr. Patel is there, giving him a stern look.
“You were supposed to be off shift at seven, Dr. Stilinski,” she says, staring him down from nearly a foot closer to the ground. “Why is it now past lunchtime?”
“Well, there’s this thing called hours and another thing called time. As the hours go by, time moves forward,” he says, putting his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. “Really, Daeva, I was helping day shift stabilize the victims of that building collapse, and I was only able to get away now.”
“We’ve spoken about this many times during the past two and a half years of your residency thus far, Stiles.” She sighs and steps aside, pointing at the chair in front of her desk. “You aren’t any good to our patients if you’re burnt out and sleep deprived.”
“I’m not burnt out,” he says, rolling his eyes when her back is to him.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, kid,” she says sternly, making him feel like he’s in the principal’s office. She gives him a serene look when she sits down. “I’ve raised three boys, so I know the behavior.”
“I’m really not burnt out. I love what I do,” he says honestly. “I’d rather be at work than anywhere else.”
“Which is the problem,” she says, holding up a small hand when he starts to protest. “Kyle Lewis said he gave you two days off last week, but you were here after eighteen hours off.”
“Dr. Lewis did give me the days off,” he agrees, “but then Dr. Miles was in that pile-up in the Lincoln Tunnel because of the robots, so I covered her shift for her.”
“Stiles, I know that Kyle is a hardass who expects dedication from our residents, but you didn’t sign away your life when you accepted our offer here,” she says. “Work-life balance is important for all of us, even residents, and I don’t want to see you become a statistic because you overwork yourself to death.”
“I don’t mind working when someone isn’t able to make their shift,” he says, shifting in his chair. He doesn’t like where this is going because he likes being able to blame his lack of time off on Lewis instead of having to accept that he practically lives at the hospital because he’s got nothing else to do.
“You haven’t finished your third year residency yet, but I’m going to tell you unofficially that you’re going to have a job with us if you want one when you finish,” she says bluntly. “You’re one of the brightest and most dedicated residents we’ve had in years, and we want to make sure that you stay healthy and balanced to reach that point.”
“I’m very healthy,” he tells her. “I go running every night before work, I make sure to eat well, and I even go to the gym here during breaks some nights.”
She groans. “You are the most stubborn and difficult man,” she mutters before she gives him a serious look. “This isn’t just coming from us. Admin is monitoring our residence program, and you exceed the allowable hours constantly. I’m afraid that I’m going to have to force the issue if you refuse to take appropriate time off.”
“I don’t get paid hourly, so what does it matter? I’m getting a lot of experience, and I would never risk my patients’ safety by working if I was tired.” He taps his thumb against each of his fingertips in his pocket. One, two, three, four, and thumb makes five. Awake it is.
“It matters,” she says firmly. “You need to go home now, Dr. Stilinski, and I do not want you back here for a minimum of thirty-six hours. Do we understand each other?”
“I want to go on record that this is ridiculous,” he says, but he doesn’t argue because she could add another twenty-four hours just because he’s a dick. “But fine. I’ll take time off.”
“I know you moved here for college,” she says, her tone more empathic, “so why don’t you take the time to catch up with friends or a significant other.”
“Right, that’s what I’ll do,” he says, flashing a smile as he stands up. “Thanks, Dr. Patel. My dad will be glad to know someone’s looking out for me.”
With that, he grabs his bag and leaves her office.
It’s mid-afternoon when he steps onto the street, pulling his sunglasses out of his bag and sliding them on when the glare from a building nearby nearly blinds him. What the hell is he supposed to do with time off? He’s twenty-seven now, which means he doesn’t just sit around and play video games like he used to, and he never really made friends in college because he doesn’t want anyone involved in his life.
Maybe he’ll get a haircut tomorrow, he decides, running his fingers through his hair. He doesn’t pull off the windswept hair hunky thing like Bucky did, he knows, so it’s probably better to go ahead and get it cut. Thinking about that odd meeting last week and Bucky specifically brings that woman to mind.
There’s no reason to doubt Bucky’s story about Hydra, but there’s also no reason to necessarily believe it, either. Stiles knows he was dumb to play along during the meal and keep him safe when he was a stranger who seemed dangerous, but he’s not going to lie to himself and pretend it was for any other reason than the fact Bucky’s cute. If he hadn’t been good-looking, Stiles wouldn’t have let himself get mixed up with the whole pretending thing.
“You sound like a superficial jerk,” he mutters, shaking his head. It’s true, though. And now he’s seen that woman from IHOP talking to one of the Medical Directors at his hospital, and he isn’t even sure if she’s really a bad person or not.
No, that’s not true. He knows she’s not good because his instincts tell him that Bucky isn’t evil. He’s got enough experience—between his own and the leftover remnants from the Nogitsune—that he always trusts his judgment when it comes to people. Bucky was hiding from the man and woman, but he wasn’t the bad guy in this scenario. The woman, on the other hand, set off some warning bells.
As he nears his apartment building, he stops at the bodega he frequents. If he’s stuck out of work for over a day, he’s going to need some food because cooking will at least kill some time. He rarely cooks anymore, usually eating takeout or in the cafeteria at work, but he keeps some of the staples that have longer shelf life for days off when they do happen.
Wine is a must. Alcohol doesn’t affect him anymore, sadly, but he still likes the taste of wine and some liquors. Maybe pasta. He can let a sauce simmer for hours and really build the flavor. Thinking about it, he runs through all of the memories in his head until he finds one from Sicily, somewhere he’s never been but that the Nogitsune visited.
While choosing the fresh ingredients he needs for the sauce, he also grabs a small package of ground beef. His fingers tingle when he touches a shelf filled with baked items, his eyes narrowing as he studies the local label before selecting a loaf of French bread. He can cut it up and eat it with his pasta tomorrow.
He gets carded for the wine, faking a laugh when the guy working the cash register talks about his youthful appearance like he hasn’t heard that joke a hundred times by now. Once he’s back on the street, he shifts his bag to his other hand and finishes the walk home.
His neighborhood is what one might call seedy, but he prefers it to the gentrification that’s taking over parts of Harlem and Brooklyn. Doctor or not, he’d rather have blue collar neighbors and deal with the houseless and addicts than a bunch of wealthy assholes. Besides, this particular area seems to be relatively supernatural free, so he’s able to keep a low profile without accidentally crossing some alpha or other being who maybe doesn’t like magic.
When he reaches his building, he tosses a bag of Doritos to Frank, a disabled Vietnam vet who’s always sitting outside smoking. Frank’s got a fondness for Doritos, so Stiles picks him up a bag whenever he stops at the store.
“Nacho cheese deliciousness,” Frank says, opening the bag. “Terri refuses to buy me these, ya know? Hates the smell.”
“Just don’t tell Terri who gave them to you, Frank,” Stiles says, returning the fist bump before he enters the lobby of their building. He gets his keys out of his scrub pants pocket and opens the mailbox, not finding anything that important. A postcard from Isaac to confirm he’s still alive and apparently in Budapest right now. Some junk mail. Some alumni crap from NYU. He sorts through it as he walks over to the corner to toss it in the trash.
The sound of a match striking catches his attention. “No smoking,” he says, pointing up at the sign without looking away from his mail.
“What if I couldn’t read, Doc?”
Stiles momentarily tightens his grip on his pile of mail before he looks up and over to the doorway that goes down to the laundry room. “You read your menu just fine, Bucky,” he says, arching a brow and studying the other man.
“Might have just been looking at the pictures,” Bucky says, taking a drag from his cigarette before pursing his lips and blowing out a smoke ring.
“Smoking will kill you,” Stiles says, not at all impressed with the smoke circles.
“Maybe I’m like you and just like to live dangerously.” Pale blue eyes watch him intently, lips curving up into a smirk.
“Do it somewhere else then because I’m not a fan of cigarette smoke,” Stiles tells him bluntly.
“Guess that means I’m not smoking anymore,” Bucky says, putting the cigarette out on the bottom of his boot before tossing it in the trash.
“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks. “Don’t give me some line, either, because I’ve worked over eighteen hours, and I’m not in the mood.”
Bucky’s an inch or two taller than he is, just enough that he has to tilt his head slightly down to meet Stiles’ eyes. “I happened to be in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by to see my warm and welcoming new friend.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Spending a meal together doesn’t make us friends,” he points out. “Just barely a level above strangers.”
“I also walked you home,” Bucky says with a boyish grin. “That should count as something.”
“I already told you that I’m not—“ He trails off when notices a red stain on Bucky’s t-shirt. Reaching over with his free hand, he pulls the leather coat away and stares. “You’ve been wounded. Are you nuts? Standing here while you’re bleeding like that? You should be at the hospital not harassing some guy you had breakfast with a week ago.”
“Some guy who happens to be a doctor,” Bucky adds, giving him a serious look. “Who might be willing to help out a friend with a quick patch-up?”
“You can’t be serious.” Stiles groans. “You came here and loitered to see if I’ll clean up your wounds?”
“Wasn’t sure which apartment is yours, and the mailboxes aren’t any help because the names are missing on most of them,” Bucky says. “That old geezer outside wouldn’t tell me which floor you live on, either.”
“Damn it,” Stiles mutters, wanting to tell him to fuck right off but he’s standing there bleeding and now he looks like he’s going to pout. “Come on. I’ll clean the wound and stitch it, but I’m going to make sure it hurts so you can think about your poor decision making.”
“Jesus, don’t snap your cap, Doc,” Bucky says. “I’ve never been a big fan of pain, so I’d like to avoid it even if I can endure it.”
“I’m on the sixth floor, and the elevators are broken again,” Stiles says simply. “You go first so I can make sure you don’t fall over from blood loss. Of all the stupid things, standing around in the lobby waiting for me to come home is at the top of that list.”
“Told you. I was in the neighborhood and felt like seeing if you were as much of a smartass as I remembered or if I was just making it up,” Bucky says, walking up the stairs like he doesn’t have some kind of bleeding wound on his ribs.
“Like you’d even have the imagination to make up someone like me,” Stiles says, not staring at Bucky’s ass that’s firm and tight and right there at eye level. “If you die before we get to my apartment, I’m leaving your body on the stairs and denying that I ever met you.”
“Nah, I definitely couldn’t make up someone like you,” Bucky agrees, his tone almost flirtatious. “I’d think those pancakes I bought you the other day would at least warrant acknowledgment of our unique and special bond.”
Despite himself, Stiles finds himself smiling at the easy banter. It continues until they reach his floor, and he opens the door to his apartment. That’s when Bucky lets out a low whistle, looking around the apartment curiously, which has Stiles feeling defensive suddenly.
“What’s that for?” he asks, putting the bag of groceries on the kitchen cabinet. He makes a motion with his hand. “The whistling thing.”
“Just didn’t expect something this small,” Bucky admits. “No offense, Doc, but you’ve got moving boxes that have dust on them, and the sofa looks brand new.”
“It’s boxes of stuff I haven’t needed since I moved here, obviously,” he says, slamming the wine bottle on the counter with more force than needed. He knows Bucky’s alright because he made it past Stiles’ magical wards without any problems, but that just means he doesn’t have any negative intentions. It doesn’t mean he’s harmless.
Bucky shrugs his coat off, reminding Stiles that he’s bleeding and needs medical attention. “I don’t even have a place, so I’m not judging you,” Bucky says. “Rent’s so damn high that I just stay with my friend or crash at friends’ places these days. Sam’s got a spare room and doesn’t have a dame right now, so it works out.”
“I’m at work a lot, so I’m usually only here to sleep,” Stiles admits, getting out his first aid kit. “Take your shirt off.”
“I’m not that kind of boy, Doc,” Bucky says with a rakish grin. “I’ve gotta be wined and dined first.”
“Bucky, take it off,” Stiles says, arching his brow and waiting.
“I’m not really that great at taking orders, but I’ll make an exception for you,” Bucky says, pulling his shirt over his head. “Where do you want me?”
“I need to see the wound, so stay standing,” Stiles says, not rising to the bait and innuendo. He’s a professional, and he’s seen much better looking people naked during his career. He isn’t going to ogle the biceps and sharp hipbones that Bucky’s flaunting.
“This is all unnecessary,” Bucky says, eyeing the bottle of saline solution and dishrag that Stiles is carrying like it’s a weapon. “It’s just a scratch.”
“Just a scratch, my ass,” Stiles says. “I’ve got eyes, and I can see it from here. Is that a knife wound?”
“Nah, some kind of blade but don’t think it was a knife,” Bucky says, watching him closely.
“It goes down further than I realized.” Stiles rinses the wound, carefully dabbing the damp gauze over it and adding more solution to the gauze as needed. Bucky’s skin is warm against his knuckles as he cleans, and Stiles can feel that intense gaze watching his every move. “It’s deep, too. I’ll need to put in some stitches, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to scar.”
“Not too worried about that,” Bucky says, his voice husky. “Scars are sexy.”
“Scars are a sign of survival,” Stiles says, thinking of the scars on his own body, echoes from his original ones that got copied onto this skin that the Nogitsune crafted for him. “Not sure I’d call them sexy.”
“Surviving is sexy,” Bucky murmurs, catching his gaze. “Not everyone’s a survivor, Stiles.”
“Can you unfasten your pants? I need to reach the edge of the cut,” he says, clearing his throat as he looks away from those pretty blue eyes.
“I’m not wearing any underwear,” Bucky admits as he unzips and shoves his pants down. Stiles manages to catch him before he can shove them too far down.
“That’s low enough,” he says, carefully wiping the cut to ensure there’s nothing left over or inside it. He hears Bucky make a noise that he ignores because he’s a professional, damn it. “You might be more comfortable if you lay down on the sofa. I can stitch this up for you.”
“What’s easier for you, Doc?” Bucky asks, his voice low and husky.
“Go to the sofa, and I’ll get my supplies,” he says. “I’ve got a bottle of whiskey to help with the pain, if you need it. I don’t have a local anesthetic because that’s not something I just keep around.”
“I’ve been through a hell of a lot worse than this,” Bucky says, flexing the fingers of his metal arm. It’s more visible now that he’s shirtless, but Stiles doesn’t stare or look at it too closely because he’s sure Bucky gets enough of that from other people.
Once he’s got everything he needs, he goes to sit on the coffee table across from the sofa. Bucky’s lying on his side, his gaze still following Stiles around, watching every move. Stiles checks the edges of the cut and frowns. He could have sworn it was deeper and longer when they were standing.
“This isn’t too bad,” he says, glad that he has a spare box of gloves at his apartment. He strokes the wound for a moment, checking it carefully, then he focuses and begins stitching it. He takes his time, not wanting to hurt Bucky worse than he must already feel.
“You’re good at that,” Bucky murmurs, his eyes half closed as he looks at Stiles’ hands. “Barely feel a thing.”
“I’d suggest getting out of the way next time to avoid getting cut,” he says, tying off the surgical thread before cutting it. “You lost some blood, and it wasn’t smart to wait for me instead of going to a hospital to get it taken care of quickly. I don’t want to know how you got it because plausible deniability is good if it was something illegal, but you should be more careful.”
“See, I knew you cared, Doc,” Bucky says, grinning slightly when Stiles looks at him. “Strangers don’t stitch each other up like this.”
“I never said I cared,” he says dryly. “And I’m a doctor so I work on strangers all the time.”
Bucky laughs, rolling slightly and causing his pants to slide down a little further. Stiles immediately looks at the ceiling because he saw a glimpse of lower belly and hair and doesn’t need to see anything else.
“I don’t mind if you look,” Bucky says, his tone teasing.
“Get your pants back on, Bucky,” he says, standing up. A hand reaches out to grip his wrist, cool metal against his warm skin.
“I owe you one, Doc,” Bucky says, looking at him intently. The teasing flirting fades to something more honest. “Step above strangers or not.”
“Acquaintances,” Stiles says, clearing his throat. “I guess I’d agree to that.”
“How’s about I pay for some delivery while I recover from these stitches, and I can work on getting us to friends?” Bucky suggests, his hair falling across his forehead as he sits up.
“I could eat,” Stiles says after a moment of consideration. “You can order while I take a shower.”
“Need a hand washing your back?” Bucky asks, giving him a look that is entirely not innocent at all.
“I’m not even going to respond to that,” he says, huffing a laugh as he shakes his head. “Just order us some food, Bucky. Menus are on the counter with my favorites circled from each place. Don’t snoop when I’m showering.”
“Snoop? Me? Never.” Bucky grins, making a gesture with his hand. “Scout’s honor.”
“Were you ever even a scout?” Stiles asks, giving him a suspicious look.
“Nah, I wasn’t,” Bucky admits. “But I’ve still got my honor. I won’t break it.”
“I’ll know if you do,” Stiles warns him, not mentioning that his magic will tell him because secrets are called that for a reason.
He looks down at his handiwork and reaches out to touch the stitches. He could have sworn they looked different just a few minutes ago. Glancing at Bucky, he wonders if maybe he’s some kind of werewolf or something with accelerated healing.
“It looks good, Stiles,” Bucky says, moving his hand over Stiles’, the warmth of his skin making Stiles pull his hand away.
“Of course, it does. I’m one of the best,” he says simply, which makes Bucky grin up at him. He clears his throat again and pulls his gloves off. “Showering now. I mean, I’m going to take my shower. Order food, Bucky. I’m starving.”