Chapter Text
𝔉𝔦𝔯𝔰𝔱 𝔞𝔠𝔱 𝔓𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔲𝔢: La vergine di Norimberga
Dr. Cullen had been insistent, infuriatingly so, with his piercing stares and unnerving calmness.
You had known better than this, better than to trust a man wearing a button-up and an unwavering smile.
Especially a doctor, especially one having the audacity to still look uncannily handsome with that button-up and that clashingly matching tie.
He had looked objectively handsome and you hadn’t been able to do anything else other than squirm in your seat, thinking about darting out of the waiting room. Perhaps while he was busy with the other party involved in the fight, slithering your way out of the hospital, your coat in one hand and the handle of the door in the other.
«Did you hit your head?» a light had shone into your eye, pupil shrinking into itself until only the tip of a needle had been left in its place.
Doctor Cullen had startled you, and startling you had always meant a flash of fear and then slow steeping irritation.
This time is no different. You battle his hand away, turning sharply «I really shouldn't be here, I’m fine. I won’t pay any medical bill.»
The pang of realization hurts you just a bit more than what you would have liked it to hurt: you truly are your father’s daughter, all gruff exterior and splintering personality.
Doctor Cullen had laughed, untouched by the unmistakeable bite in your tone, he had fished for your hand with cold fingers, eyes down casted and expression serene, and then he had probed and touched, massaging each knuckle into his hands, the coolness of his fingertips soothing your bruised and scratched knuckles.
«Nothing broken.» he had declared finally.
And thank you very much, you have known how to throw punches your entire life.
Your eyes dart to the now empty chair where not even a couple of minutes ago had sat the girl shaking in her boots.
You hadn’t realised she had fled the scene as you yourself should have done.
«Are you new in town? I haven’t seen you here before.»
You were not, you were born and bred in Forks, Washington but you had never taken it upon yourself to pay a visit to the hospital.
«No.»
«Then it is good I have not met you before, it’s never good to meet new people at the hospital.»
He had startled you again, but this time it had been his stupidly handsome smile to startle you. Yeah, that’s it, what made you wary of Dr. Cullen had been his stupidly handsome face.
You had heard tales of his undoubted beauty, of the “handsome surgeon roaming the day-lighted halls of the central hospital” but you had never pressed the matter, you were the bartender and the bartender never asks questions, they only listen.
You had heard divided opinions on him, “handsome and perfect” from the ladies downing Martinis like you should have done with your vitamins, “unrightfully beautiful” whispered by some men too deep in their glasses to pay you any mind, and “a vermin infesting our town” by some other, mostly Quileute, mostly too drunk to be driving back to La Push after closing hours.
You had paid them all very little mind, refilling their drinks one by one and praying for your shift to end.
You were praying for this to end as well, a splitting headache festering behind your eyes as the hours of the morning had slowly crept its ineluctability over the next day, shortening your already short sleep schedule for yet another night that will be needed to be catch up.
«I won’t—»
«Pay any medical bill, I heard you, do not fret, I’m simply checking on you.» He had been infuriatingly polite, posh even and that had done nothing but put you even more on edge.
Polite people don’t dwell in a looming town filled with gruff men and women mourning the life they could have had somewhere else. anywhere else.
Politeness doesn’t rub you the right way, you try to pour it every time you similarly pour drinks in their respective glasses but unbind politeness simply gives you whiplash.
«Medical examinations are not for free.»
«How very lucky of you then that my shift ended…» —and looking at his wristwatch with a sharp jerk of his arm, he declared: «Three minutes ago.»
Politeness rubs you the wrong way but you are nothing if not an opportunist.
So for the same vile reason you accept drinks from strangers, you also sit quietly, your empty hand filling his palms.
«You have quite the left hook don’t you?»
You have a meaner right one, you truly do, but the adrenaline and the fury that had tinted your vision red and blurry had not cared for which hand had flown in the direction of the dude’s face at that moment. You hadn’t even really cared for the result, for the reasoning behind yours and his gesture, you had only cared for an outlet.
«Did this happen tonight too?»
No. No, that one had happened this morning.
«No.»
His freezingly cold hands had grazed over the cut on your forehead, already swelled and bruised a deep red that will eventually fade into green and yellow.
«Yesterday night perhaps?» The implication in his voice had you cringe, as if you had been going out every night looking for damsels in distress or trouble.
«This morning, cupboard left open.» cupboard slammed open over your head, a couple of times to be precise.
«Ah, I see.»
The doctor had retreated then, finally putting some well-deserved distance in between you and his unnerving presence.
«Well, I see nothing wrong with you miss…» You know it’s a way to get your name, but you take it as dismissal.
«Thank you very much, doctor.» you retort simply, leaving the honorific unclaimed, bunching your coat in the fist of your dominant hand, scraped knuckles rubbing uncomfortably over the rough texture of your jeans, and standing up.
You are at the door of the hospital when his voice calls you back once more.
«You did a very noble gesture. Miss.»
You grunt a noncommittal sound you are sure he won’t hear then you take the door.
.
The bar stays open, it physically cannot close with the door splintered in its hinges and two neighbouring windows smashed in. You scrub the counter clean, the sour scent of artificial lemon burning your nose and the stinging cleaner seeping past the hastily fastened band over your knuckles.
«Done.» Nik hums from his boot, book dangling over his head as if to prove his affirmation to you.
Brat.
You sling your rag over the already damp shoulder of your black shirt, an unfashionable piece you had had to dig out of your closet ages ago when you had taken up the job at the Mallory's bar just down the street.
You let your eyes skim over the scarcely filled seats, looking if anyone needs a refill on their drinks, but the early birds are all either sulking like teenagers in a rom-com over a glass of watered down whiskey or simply too invested in their newspaper to care if their alcohol is in need of a topping up.
«Lemme see.» you declare, finally letting yourself fall into the cramped boot, hand extended to the boy in invitation.
«What? If I have finished?»
Your brother passes you the book nonetheless, and your palms get sticky laying over the poorly cleaned surface of the table in between the two of you.
You flipped it open, eyes darting over words swirling in your head as slowly as Carillon’s horses.
«What happens on page 67?»
Nik snorts, rolling his eyes like the teenager he is. «God I don’t know, care to give a little context?» You don’t particularly do, you simply plop your weight down to the backrest of the couch, turning the book 90° sharp. «Lemme see, there are…» —you feign a darting of your eyes and a clicking sound of your tongue on the inside of your teeth, counting some lines here and there but ultimately not doing so.- «Around several lines on this page, on the very end of the page there is this little number saying “67” and the names “Margaret” and “Marianne”, confusing in my opinion, are repeated… well, several times. More specific than this and it’s basically cheating.»
Your brother snorts a laugh, eyes crinkling in the poorly lit corner of the room.
«Tomorrow I need to be at school.»
You hum, letting your brother snatch the book out of your lazy grasp.
This is better, better than at home or, sadly, wasting time with you, rotting in a place where everyone’s future goes to die.
«That’s good, does your hand still hurt?»
The kid shakes his head, a mop of black hair taking life and swinging on the top of his head.
«Good, but you tell me if it does.»
You fish out of your jeans a clam phone, wrestling awkwardly with your sitting position, the irritatingly small pockets of your flared jeans and the useless little apron that you are required to wear, and shoot your sister a message.
“Tonight we need to cut Satan’s hair, it’s getting out of hand.”
You hear a ‘ping’ in response but you ignore it, closing the phone and slamming it back on the sticky table. «Read page 67 one more time for me, I still need to change out of this thing and then we can ditch, plus you clearly need to freshen that part up.»
You decide it’s better not to tell him what awaits him at home, better to have the element of surprise on your side.
A couple of minutes later, a new shirt donned on your back, and the two of you are out and about. The butt of a cigarette bitten in between your teeth and the promise you will get your brother to the local library as unlit as the rolled tobacco.
The motor of your car doesn’t purr and if perhaps, once, it had used to sing now it surely doesn’t do it anymore, it coughs; deeply and agonizingly, like you do when winter gets its icy fingers on your poorly dressed figure but you still resolve yourself to smoke, stubborn and petty, hacking up your lungs each time.
Nik doesn’t comment on that, while you try and turn on and off the car with growing impatience.
When it finally starts you smile smugly, eyes flickering to your brother with pompous satisfaction. The drive to the library is so short-lived that you almost whine at the idea of turning off the car you had just managed to start but electricity costs and for how much you would have liked the idea of sitting in the almost warm car for a couple more minutes your brother has never been the “in and out of a library” type of kid.
«You have twenty minutes.» you warn him, sure it will be well over the time limit when the two of you finally get out of the stuffy buildings to dare the cold once more.
The brat hums as if he knows the same exact thing, unfastening his belt and exiting the car. You follow him like a dog, his scary dog privilege in a town that’s so dormant a kitten would make do, finishing your cigarette and hanging a little bit back, a weird attempt at giving your brother a bit of freedom despite your overly acute protectiveness.
The librarian offers you his greetings like he does every time you end up in his reign, eyes glistening with unhidden curiosity and for how little it costs for you to spend some time among the living you bid your brother “good search” and you hang back to indulge in some good frivolous gossip.
«So, big fight last night uh?»
Not really if he’s asking for your very personal opinion, a drunken slave to the bottle and a girl too mouthy for her own good. «No, not really, dude’s got down after the first couple blows.
Lauren needs to learn when to shut up tho, but you know how kids are at their age, all piss and vinegar and the will to fight god or whatever they say nowadays.»
Samuel snorts a laugh out of his Greek nose, eyes darting to the register to check if he’s needed, he’s not, god, you, your brother, and Sam are probably the only people in the library at this moment but you appreciate his dedication.
«Man, I was pumped up when I heard you got to the hospital, it’s not every day’s news you have been finally knocked out of your feet.»
You will gloss over the fact he directly told you he had been excited about your trip to the ER, Sam’s a good boy if you can be a judge of anything regarding the matter, but the sting of untrue rumours spreading about you still pangs at your pride.
«I went only because the boss was too preoccupied in mourning his oak door to bring his daughter in himself, I didn’t need it.»
That had been a truth, it had been mumbled harshly at “handsome face” and it had been a truth still said carelessly at your old acquaintance.
The encounter with Doctor Handsome had been described by numerous tipsy women as ‘life-changing’ but for all of their big talks, no one seemed to have taken it upon themself to actually tell you it would have haunt you for a couple of hours afterwards.
His stare on your back has haunted you all the way to the parking lot, your car still parked in the ER patient spot, engine too cold to start immediately.
You had felt it on the back of your skull, deep, underneath your skin like an infection.
It had made you look at your rearview mirror several times on your way back home, a truly bizarre feeling coming from you, always diving headfirst into every possible dangerous situation.
No, his danger, if that has been what that was, had been subtle, a feeling more than an ostentation, simply a nagging sensation chewing at the back of your head.
«You haven’t seen doctor handsome then?» There he is, his creepily handsome presence looming over your discussion as it has loomed over your sitting position in the hospital’s hall.
You shrug your shoulders. Beside the Quileute, you had been one of the few persons still unfamiliar with the “new” doctor, and even more so it had been excessively strange since you had been fighting in back alleys and bar’s entrance since your first day of middle school.
«Weird, he works on Saturdays, he should have been there till 4.» you arch an eyebrow at him, the question lingering in the soft silence that follows.
«Got yourself a crush Sammy?» you tease, shoving your hands into your pockets and resuming a previously abandoned origami of a lump you had started to fold with a receipt a couple of days ago.
Sam laughs nervously, a bit red on the bridge of his nose.
«No, no, it’s that I’m always there, you know, epistaxis and all of it.»
You don’t know, but you vaguely remember an oddly young Samuel clutching at his nose during 9th-grade Biology, when you two were classmates still and you had yet to decide to drop out.
You hum approvingly even though it’s a lie, and Sam seems to put himself back at ease.
Right when he’s about to ask you something else a slam jolts the redhead into motion.
«I want this one.» Nik’s standing on the other side of the counter, a new book pressed into the wood of the desk.
The rest of the day is wasted in the city on errands, in the Laundromat, since your washing machine back at home has been leaking for a couple of months now, in the supermarket, shoving handfuls of school supplies in your cart and finally in the clothes store since Nik had started to look ridiculous in those jeans —by now not even ankle length- you had bought him a year ago.
The ride back home is comfortably quiet, the engine of your car stuttering softly under your seat and a random song cracking in some spots over the disturbed radio signal.
You let Nik decide his fate, well at least you let him decide the style he wants on his head for at least a few months. Anna gently brushes Nik’s hair over the stool in the middle of the kitchen as you wash the dishes and throw something together for a quick dinner.
The night is eerily quiet, your father’s truck is not in the driveway and the three of you carve every minute of each other’s company into a semblance of a life you are painfully crafting from scratch.
If every day of your life could have been like this one —fight included but not binding, you would die a happy woman.